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m'-' 


UNlV::-U5iTV  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DM&O 


53- 


JOHN    BRENT. 


BY 


THEODORE    WINTHEOP, 

AUTHOR  OF    "  CECIL  DKEEME." 


BOSTON : 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  axb  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1862,  by 

TICKNOR    AND    FIElPfi 

in  the  ClerK's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Cambridge  : 

WiLOU,    BlQELOW,    AND    COMPAH/ 

Peini'ers  to  thb  Ukitebbitt. 


CONTENTS. 

Chap.  Pagb 

I.  AuRi  Sacra  Fames 5 

n.  Gerrian's  Ranch      .        .        .        .       .  13 

in.  Don  Fulano 23 

IV.  John  Brent       ...  .        .  36 

V.  Across  Country 49 

VI.  Jake  Shamberlain 59 

Vn.  Enter,  the  Brutes! 67 

VLTI.  A  Mormon  Caravan       ....  79 

IX.     SiZZUM   AND   HIS   HERETICS   ....         90 

X.  "Ellen!  Ellen!" 101 

XI.   Father  and  Daughter       .        .        .  .113 

XII.  A  Ghoul  at  the  Feast         .        .        .  125 

Xin.  Jake  Shamberlain's  Ball          .        .  .136 

XIV.  Hugh  Clitheroe 146 

XV.  A  Lover 166 

XVI.   Armstrong 181 

XVTI.  Caitiff  baffles  Ogre       .        .        .  .193 


IV  CONTENTS. 

XVIII.   A  Gallop  of  Three  ....  200 

XIX.   Faster 207 

XX.  A  Horse 218 

XXI.     LUGGERNEL    SPRINGS           ....  225 

XXII.    Champagnb 238 

XXIII.  An  Idyl  op  the  Rockys        .        .        .247 

XXIV.  Drapetomania 254 

XXV.  Noblesse  Oblige 264 

XXVI.   Ham 274 

XXVII.  FuLANo's  Blood-Stain    ...  284 

XXVni.    Short's  Cut-off           ....  294 

XXIX.   A  Lost  Trail 301 

XXX.  London 313 

XXXL   A  Dwarf 321 

XXXH.   Padiham's  Shop 335 

XXXin.   "  Cast  thy  Bread  upon  the  Waters  "  343 

XXXIV.   The  Last  of  a  Lov'e-Chase     .        .  354 


JOHN    BRE^^T. 


CHAPTER    I. 

AURI    SACRA  FAMES. 


I  WRITE  in  the  first  person;  but  I  shall  not 
maunder  about  myself.  I  am  in  no  sense  the 
hero  of  this  drama.  Call  me  Chorus,  if  you 
please,  —  not  Chorus  merely  observant  and  im- 
passive; rather  Chorus  a  sympathizing  monitor 
and  helper.  Perhaps  I  gave  a  certain  crude 
momentum  to  the  movement  of  the  play,  when 
finer  forces  were  ready  to  flag ;  but  others  bore 
the  keen  pangs,  others  took  the  great  prizes, 
wHle  I  stood  by  to  lift  the  maimed  and  cheer 
the  victor. 

It  is  a  healthy,  simple,  broad-daylight  story. 
No  mystery  in  it.  There  is  action  enough,  pri- 
meval action  of  the  Homeric  kind.  Deeds  of 
the  heroic  and  chivalric  times  do  not  utterly  dis- 
dain our  day.  There  are  men  as  ready  to  gallop 
for  love  and  strike  for  love  now,  as  in  the  age  of 
Amadis. 


6  JOHN  BEENT. 

Roughs  and  brutes,  as  well  as  gentlemen,  take 
their  places  iu  this  drama.  None  of  the  charac- 
ters have  scruples  or  qualms.  They  act  accord- 
ing to  their  laws,  and  are  scourged  or  crowned, 
as  their  laws  suit  Nature's  or  not. 

To  me  these  adventures  were  episode ;  to  my 
friend,  the  hero,  the  very  substance  of  life. 

But  enough  backing  and  filling.  Enter  Rich- 
ard Wade  —  myself —  as  Chorus. 

A  few  years  ago  I  was  working  a  gold-quartz 
mine  in  California. 

It  was  a  worthless  mine,  under  the  conditions 
of  that  time.  I  had  been  dragged  into  it  by  the 
shifts  and  needs  of  California  life.  Destiny  prob- 
ably meant  to  teach  me  patience  and  self-posses- 
sion in  difficulty.  So  Destiny  thrust  me  into  a 
bitter  bad  business  of  quaetz  mining. 

If  I  had  had  countless  dollars  of  capital  to 
work  my  mine,  or  quicksilver  for  amalgamation 
as  near  and  plenty  as  the  snow  on  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  I  might  have  done  well  enoiigh. 

As  it  was,  I  got  but  certain  pennyworths  of 
gold  to  a  most  intolerable  quantity  of  quartz. 
The  precious  metal  was  to  the  brute  mineral  m 
the  proportion  of  perhaps  a  hundred  pin-heads  to 
the  ton.  My  partners,  down  in  San  Francisco, 
wrote  to  me  :  "  Only  find  twice  as  many  pin- 
heads,  and  our  fortune  is  made."     So  thought 


AUEI  SACRA  FAMES.  7 

those  ardent  fellows,  fancying  that  gold  would  go 
up  and  labor  go  down,  —  that  presently  I  would 
strike  a  vein  where  the  mineral  would  show  yel- 
low threads  and  yellow  dots,  perhaps  even  yellow 
knobs,  in  the  crevices,  instead  of  empty  crannies 
which  Nature  had  prepared  for  monetary  deposits 
and  forgotten  to  fill. 

So  thought  the  fellows  in  San  Francisco.  They 
had  been  speculating  in  beef,  bread-stufis,  city 
lots,  Eincon  Point,  wharf  property,  mission  lands, 
Mexican  titles,  Sacramento  boats,  politics,  Ore- 
gon lumber.  They  had  been  burnt  out,  they  had 
been  cleaned  out,  they  had  been  drowned  out. 
They  depended  upon  me  and  the  quartz  mine  to 
set  them  up  again.  So  there  was  a  small,  steady 
stream  of  money  flowing  up  from  San  Francisco 
from  the  depleted  coffers  of  those  sanguine  part- 
ners, flowing  into  our  mine,  and  sinking  there, 
together  with  my  labor  and  my  life. 

Our  ore  —  the  San  Francisco  partners  liked  to 
keep  up  the  complimentary  fiction  of  calling  it 
ore  —  was  pretty  stuff  for  an  amateur  mineralogi- 
cal  cabinet.  A  professor  would  have  exhibited 
specimens  to  a  lecture-room  with  delight.  There 
never  was  any  quartz  where  the  matrix  was  better 
defined,  better  shaped  to  hold  the  gold  that  was 
not  in  it.  For  Macadam,  what  royal  material  it 
would  have  been  !  Park  roads  made  of  it  would 
have  glittered  gayer  than  marble.     How  brilhant- 


JOHN  BRENT. 


\j  paths  covered  with  its  creamy-white  fragments 
would  have  meandered  through  green  grass  ! 

If  I  had  had  no  fond  expectations  of  these 
shming  wliite  and  yellow  stones,  I  should  have 
deemed  their  mass  useful  and  ornamental  enough, 
—  useful  skeleton  material  to  help  hold  the  world 
together,  ornamental  when  it  lay  in  the  sun  and 
sparkled.  But  this  laughing  sparkle  had  some- 
thing of  a  sneer  in  it.  The  stuff  knew  that  it 
had  humbugged  me.  Let  a  man  or  a  woman  be 
victor  over  man  or  woman,  and  the  chances  are 
that  generosity  will  suppress  the  peean.  But  mat- 
ter is  so  often  insulted  and  disdained,  that  when 
it  triumphs  over  mind  it  is  merciless. 

Yes;  my  quartz  had  humbugged  me.  Or 
rather — let  me  not  be  unjust  even  to  undefend- 
ed stone,  not  rich  enough  to  pay  an  advocate  — 
I  had  humbugged  myself  with  false  hopes.  I 
have  since  ascertained  that  my  experience  is 
not  singular.  Other  men  have  had  false  hopes 
of  other  things  than  quartz  mines.  Perhaps  it 
was  to  teach  me  this  that  the  experience  came. 
Having  had  my  lesson,  I  am  properly  cool  and 
patient  now  when  I  see  other  people  suffering 
in  the  same  way,  —  whether  they  dig  for  gold, 
fame,  or  bliss;  digging  for  the  bread  of  their 
life,  and  getting  only  a  stone.  The  quartz  was 
honest  enough  as  quartz.  It  was  my  own  fault 
tliat  I   looked   for  gold-bearing  quartz,  and   so 


AUEI   SACRA   FAMES.  9 

louiKi  it  bogus  and  a  delusion.  What  right 
have  "are  to  demand  the  noble  from  the  ignoble ! 

I  used  sometimes  fairly  to  shake  my  fist  at 
my  handsome  pQe  of  mineral,  my  bullionless 
pockets  of  ore.  There  was  gold  in  the  quartz ; 
there  are  pearls  in  the  Jersey  muds ;  there  are 
plums  in  boarding-house  puddings ;  there  are 
sixpences  in  the  straw  of  Broadway  omnibuses. 

Steady  disappointment,  by  and  by,  informs  a 
man  that  he  is  in  the  wrong  place.  All  work, 
no  play,  no  pay,  is  a  hint  to  work  elsewhere. 
But  men  must  dig  in  the  wrong  spots  to  learn 
where  these  are,  and  so  narrow  into  the  right 
spot  at  last.  Every  man,  it  seems,  must  waste 
go  much  life.  Every  man  must  have  so  much 
imprisonment  to  teach  him  limits  and  fit  him 
for  freedom. 

Nearly  enough,  however  of  Miei  Prigioni.  A 
word  or  two  of  my  companions  in  jail.  A 
hard  lot  they  were,  my  neighbors  within  twenty 
miles !  Jail-birds,  some  of  them,  of  the  worst 
kind.  It  was  as  well,  perhaps,  that  my  digging 
did  not  make  money,  and  theirs  did.  They 
would  not  have  scrupled  to  bag  my  gold  and 
butcher  me.  But  they  were  not  all  rufiians ; 
some  were  only  barbarians. 

Pikes,  most  of  these  latter.  America  is  man- 
ufacturing   seveial    new    types    of    men.      The 

Pike  is  one  of   the   newest.     He   is  a  bastard 
1* 


10  JOHN  BRENT. 

pioneer.  With  one  hand  he  chitches  the  pio- 
neer vices ;  with  tlie  other  he  beckons  forward 
the  vices  of  civihzation.  It  is  hard  to  under- 
stand how  a  man  can  have  so  Httle  virtue  in 
so  long  a  body,  unless  the  shakes  are  foes  to 
virtue  in  the  soul,  as  they  are  to  beauty  in  the 
face. 

He  is  a  terrible  shock,  this  unlucky  Pike,  to 
the  hope  that  the  new  race  on  the  new  continent 
is  to  be  a  handsome  race.  I  lose  that  faith,  which 
the  people  about  me  now  have  nourished,  when  I 
recall  the  Pike.  He  is  hung  together,  not  put 
together.  He  inserts  his  lank  fathom  of  a  man 
into  a  suit  of  molasses-colored  homespun.  Frowzy 
and  husky  is  the  hair  Nature  crowns  him  with  ; 
frowzy  and  stubby  the  beard.  He  shambles  in 
his  walk.  He  drawls  in  his  talk.  He  drinks 
whiskey  by  the  tank.  His  oaths  are  to  liis  words 
as  Falstaff's  sack  to  his  bread.  I  have  seen  Mal- 
tese beggars,  Arab  camel-drivers,  Dominican  fri- 
ars, New  York  Aldermen,  Digger  Lidians ;  the 
foulest,  frowziest  creatures  I  have  ever  seen  are 
thorough-bred  Pikes.  The  most  vigorous  of 
them  leave  their  native  landscape  of  cotton-wood 
and  sand-bars  along  the  yellow  ditches  of  the 
"West,  and  emigrate  with  a  wagon-load  of  pork 
and  pork-fed  progeny  across  the  plains  to  Cali- 
fornia. There  the  miasms  are  roasted  out  of 
them  ;  the  shakes  warmed  away ;  they  will  grow 


AURI   SACRA  FAMES.  11 

rich,  and  possibly  mellow,  in  the  third  or  fourth 
generation.  They  had  not  done  so  in  my  time. 
I  lived  among  them  ad  nauseam,  month  after 
month,  and  I  take  this  opportunity  to  pay  them 
parting  compliments. 

I  went  on  toiling,  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  two  good  years  of  my  life,  over  that  miser- 
able mine.  Nothing  came  of  it.  I  was  growing 
poorer  with  every  ton  we  dug,  poorer  with  every 
pound  we  crushed.  Li  a  few  months  more,  I 
should  have  spent  my  last  dollar  and  have  gone 
to  day  labor,  perhaps  among  the  Pikes.  The 
turnpike  stuff  refused  to  change  into  gold.  I 
saw,  of  course,  that  something  must  be  done. 
What,  I  did  not  know.  I  was  in  that  state 
when  one  needs  an  influence  without  himself  to 
take  him  by  the  hand  gently,  by  the  shoulder 
forcibly,  by  the  hair  roughly,  or  even  by  the  nose 
insultingly,  and  drag  him  off  into  a  new  region. 

The  influence  came.  Bad  news  reached  me. 
My  only  sister,  a  widow,  my  only  near  relative, 
died,  leaving  two  young  children  to  my  care.  It 
was  strange  how  tliis  sorrow  made  the  annoyance 
and  weariness  of  my  life  naught !  How  this  re- 
sponsibility cheered  me !  My  Ufe  seemed  no 
longer  lonely  and  purposeless.  Point  was  given 
to  all  my  intentions  at  once.  I  must  return 
home  to  New  York.  Further  plans  when  I  am 
there !     But  now  for  home  !     If  any  one  wanted 


]2  JOHN  BRENT. 

my  quartz  mine,  he  might  have  it.  I  could  not 
pack  it  in  my  saddle-bags  to  present  to  a  college 
cabinet  of  mineralogy. 

I  determined,  as  time  did  not  absolutely  press, 
to  ride  home  across  the  plains.  It  is  a  grand 
journey.  Two  thousand  miles,  or  so,  on  horse- 
back. Mountains,  deserts,  prairies,  rivers.  Mor- 
mons, Indians,  buffalo,  —  adventures  without 
number  in  prospect.  A  hearty  campaign,  and 
no  carpet  knighthood  about  it. 

It  was  late  August.  I  began  my  preparations 
at  once. 


CHAPTER   II. 


GERKIAN'S  RANCH. 


It  happened  that,  on  a  journey,  early  in  the 
same  summer,  some  twenty  miles  from  my  mine, 
I  had  come  upon  a  band  of  horses  feeding  on  the 
prairie.  They  cantered  off  as  I  went  riding 
down  the  yellow  slope,  and  then,  halting  just  out 
of  lasso  reach,  stopped  to  reconnoitre  me.  Ani- 
mals are  always  eager  to  observe  man.  Perhaps 
they  want  ideas  against  the  time  of  their  promo- 
tion to  humanity,  so  that  they  need  not  be  awk- 
ward, and  introduce  quadruped  habits  into  biped 
circles. 

The  mass  of  the  herd  inspected  me  stupidly 
enough.  Man  to  them  was  power,  and  nothing 
else, —  a  lasso-throwing  machine, —  something  that 
put  cruel  bits  into  equine  mouths,  got  on  equine 
backs,  and  forced  equine  legs  to  gallop  until  they 
were  stiff.  Man  was  therefore  something  to  ad- 
mire, but  to  avoid,  —  so  these  horses  seemed  to 
think ;  and  if  they  had  known  man  as  brother 
man  alone  knows  him,  perhaps  their  opinion 
would  have  been  confirmed. 


1-4  JOHN  BEENl. 

One  horse,  however,  among  them,  had  more 
courage,  or  more  curiosity,  or  more  faith.  He 
withdrew  from  the  gregarious  commonalty,  —  the 
haughty  aristocrat !  —  and  approached  me,  cir- 
cling about,  as  if  he  felt  a  certain  centripetal 
influence, —  as  if  he  knew  himself  a  higher  be- 
ing than  his  mustang  comrades, — nearer  to  man, 
and  willing  to  offer  him  his  friendship.  He  and 
I  divided  the  attention  of  the  herd.  He  seemed 
to  be,  not  their  leader,  but  rather  one  who  dis- 
dained leadership.  Facile  princeps  I  He  was 
too  far  above  the  noblest  of  the  herd  to  care  for 
their  unexciting  society. 

I  slipped  quietly  down  from  my  little  Mexican 
caballo,  and,  tethering  him  to  a  bush  with  the 
lariat,  stood  watching  the  splendid  motions  of  this 
free  steed  of  the  prairie. 

He  was  an  American  horse,  —  so  they  distin- 
guish in  Cahfornia  one  brought  from  the  old 
States,  —  A  SUPERB  young  stallion,  perfectly 
BLACK,  WITHOUT  MARK.  It  was  magnificent  to 
see  him,  as  he  circled  about  me,  fire  in  his  eye, 
pride  .in  his  nostril,  tail  flying  like  a  banner, 
power  and  grace  from  tip  to  tip.  No  one  would 
ever  mount  him,  or  ride  him,  unless  it  was  his 
royal  pleasure.  He  was  conscious  of  his  repre- 
sentative position,  and  showed  his  paces  hand- 
somely. It  is  the  business  of  all  beautiful  things 
to  exhibit. 


GERMAN'S  EANCH.  15 

Imagine  the  scene.  A  little  hollow  in  the 
prairie,  forming  a  perfect  amphitheatre ;  the  yel- 
low grass  and  wild  oats  grazed  short ;  a  herd  of 
horses  staring  from  the  slope,  myself  standing  in 
the  middle,  like  the  ring-master  in  a  circus,  and 
this  wonderful  horse  performing  at  his  own  free 
will.  He  trotted  powerfully,  he  galloped  grace- 
fully, he  thundered  at  full  speed,  he  lifted  his 
fore-legs  to  welcome,  he  flung  out  his  hind-legs 
to  repel,  he  leaped  as  if  he  were  springing  over 
bayonets,  he  pranced  and  curvetted  as  if  he  were 
the  pretty  plaything  of  a  girl ;  finally,  when  he 
had  amused  himself  and  delighted  me  sufficiently, 
he  trotted  up  and  snuffed  about  me,  just  out  of 
reach. 

A  horse  knows  a  friend  by  instinct.  So  does 
a  man.  But  a  man,  vain  creature !  is  willing 
to  repel  instinct  and  trust  intellect,  and  so  suf- 
fers from  the  attempt  to  revise  his  first  impres- 
sions, which,  if  he  is  healthy,  are  infallible. 

The  black,  instinctively  knowing  me  for  a 
friend,  came  forward  and  made  the  best  speech 
he  could  of  welcome,  —  a  neigh  and  no  more. 
Then,  feeling  a  disappointment  that  his  compli- 
ment could  not  be  more  melodiously  or  grace- 
fully turned,  he  approached  nearer,  and,  not 
without  shying  and  starts,  of  which  I  took  no 
notice,  at  last  licked  my  hand,  put  his  head 
upon  my  shoulder,  suffered  me  to  put  my  arm 


16  JOHN   BRENT. 

round  his  neck,  and  in  fact  lavished  upon  me 
every  mark  of  confidence.  "We  were  growing 
■^ast  friends,  when  I  heard  a  sound  of  coming 
hoofs.  The  black  tore  away  with  a  snort,  and 
galloped  off  with  the  herd  after  him.  A  Mexi- 
can vaquero  dashed  down  the  slope  in  pursuit. 
I  hailed  liim. 

"A  quien  es  ese  caballo  —  el  negrito  ? " 

"  Aquel  diablo  !  es  del  Senor  Gerrian."  And 
he  sped  on. 

I  knew  Gerrian.  He  was  a  Pike  of  the  bet- 
ter class.  He  had  found  his  way  early  to  Cali- 
fornia, bought  a  mission  farm,  and  established 
himself  as  a  ranchero.  His  herds,  droves,  and 
flocks  darkened  the  hills.  The  name  reminded 
me  of  the  giant  Geryon  of  old.  Were  I  an 
unscrupulous  Hercules,  free  to  pillage  and  name 
it  protection,  I  would  certainly  drive  off  Gerri- 
an's  herds  for  the  sake  of  that  black  horse.  So 
I  thought,  as  I  watched  them  gallop  away. 

It  chanced  that,  when  I  was  making  my  ar- 
rangements to  start  for  home,  business  took  me 
within  a  mile  of  Gerrian's  ranch.  I  remem- 
bered my  interview  with  the  black.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  I  would  ride  down  and  ask  the  ran- 
chero to  sell  me  his  horse  for  my  journey. 

I   found   Gerrian,   a   lank,   wire-drawn    man, 
burnt   almost    Mexican   color,   lounging  in   the 
shade  of  his  adobe  house.     I  told  him  my  busi 
ness  in  a  word. 


GERRL^N'S   RANCH.  17 

"  No  buenO)  stranger !  "  said  he. 

"  Why  not  ?     Do  you  want  to  keep  the  horse." 

"  No,  not  partickler.  Thar  am't  a  better  stal- 
lion nor  him  this  side  the  Soutli  Pass  ;  but  I  can't 
do  nothing  with  him  no  more  'n  yer  can  with  a 
steamboat  when  the  cap'n  says,  '  Beat  or  bust ! ' 
Hg  's  a  black  devil,  ef  thar  ever  was  a  devil  into 
a  horse's  hide.  Somebody  's  tried  to  break  him 
down  when  he  was  a  colt,  an  now  he  wont  stan* 
nobody  goan  near  him." 

"  Sell  him  to  me,  and  I  '11  try  him  with  kind- 
ness." 

"  No,  stranger.  I  've  tuk  a  middlin'  shine  to 
you  from  the  way  you  got  off  that  Chinaman 
them  Pikes  was  goan  to  hang  fur  stealing  the 
mule  what  he  had  n't  stoled.  I  've  tuk  a  middlin' 
kind  er  shine  to  you,  and  I  don't  want  to  see 
yer  neck  broke,  long  er  me.  That  thar  black  '11 
shut  up  the  hinge  in  yer  neck  so  tight  that 
yer  '11  never  look  up  to  ther  top  of  a  red-wood 
again.  Allowin'  you  haint  got  an  old  ox-yoke 
into  yer  fur  backbone,  yer  '11  keep  off  tliat  thar 
black  kettrypid,  till  the  Injins  tie  yer  on,  and 
motion  yer  to  let  him  slide  or  be  shot." 

"  My  backbone  is  pretty  stiff,"  said  I ;  "I 
will  risk  my  neck." 

"  The  Greasers  is  some  on  bosses,  you  '11  give 
in,  I  reckon.  Well,  thar  ain't  a  Greaser  on  my 
ranch  that  '11  put  leg  over  that  tliar  streak  er 


18  JOHN   BRENT. 

four-legged  lightning;  no,  not  if  yer  'd  chain 
off  for  him  a  claim  six  squar  leagues  in  the  raal 
old  Garden  of  Paradise,  an  stock  it  with  ther  best 
gang  er  bullocks  this  side  er  Santer  Fee." 

"  But  I  'm  not  a  Mexican  ;  I  'm  the  stiffest  kind 
of  Yankee.  I  don't  give  in  to  horse  or  man. 
Besides,  if  he  throws  me  and  breaks  my  neck 
I  get  my  claim  in  Paradise  at  once." 

"  Well,  stranger,  you  've  drawed  yer  bead  on 
that  thar  black,  as  anybody  can  see.  An  ef  a 
man  's  drawed  his  bead,  thar  ain't  no  use  tellin* 
him  to  pint  off." 

"  No.     If  you  '11  sell,  I  '11  buy." 

"  Well,  if  you  wunt  go  fur  to  ask  me  to  throw 
in  a  coffin  to  boot,  praps  we  ken  scare  up  a 
trade.  How  much  do  you  own  in  the  Foolonner 
Mine  ? " 

I  have  forgotten  to  speak  of  my  mine  by  its 
title.  A  certain  Pike  named  Pegrum,  Colonel 
Pegrum,  a  pompous  Pike  from  Pike  County, 
Missouri,  had  once  owned  the  mine.  The  Span- 
iards, finding  the  syllables  Pegrum  a  harsh  mor- 
sel, spoke  of  the  colonel,  as  they  might  of  any 
stranger,  as  Don  Fulano,  —  as  we  should  say, 
"  John  Smith."  It  grew  to  be  a  nickname,  and 
finally  Pegrum,  taking  his  donship  as  a  title  of 
honor,  had  procured  an  act  of  the  legislature 
dubbing  him  formally  Don  Fulano  Pegrum.  As 
such  he  is  known,  laughed  at,  become  a  public 


GEEELAN'S   RANCH.  19 

man  and  probable  Democratic  Governor  of  Cali- 
fornia. From  him  our  quartz  cavern  had  taken 
its  name. 

I  told  Gerrian  that  I  owned  one  quarter  of  the 
Don  Fulano  Mine. 

"  Then  you  're  jess  one  quarter  richer  'n  ef  you 
owned  haff,  and  jess  three  quarters  richer  'n  ef 
you  owned  the  hull  kit  and  boodle  of  it." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  I.  I  knew  it  by  bitter 
heart. 

"  Well  stranger,  less  see  ef  we  can't  banter  fur 
a  trade.  I  've  got  a  boss  that  ken  kill  ayry  man. 
That 's  so  ;  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  You  say  so." 

"  You  've  got  a  mine,  that  '11  break  ayry  man, 
short  pocket  or  long  pocket.  That  's  so  ;  ain't 
it?" 

"No  doubt  of  that." 

"  Well  now ;  my  curwolyow  's  got  grit  into 
him,  and  so  's  that  thar  pile  er  quartz  er  yourn 
got  gold  into  it.  But  you  cant  git  the  slugs  out 
er  your  mineral ;  and  I  can  get  the  kicks  a  blasted 
bight  thicker  'n  anything  softer  out  er  my  animal. 
Here's  horse  agin  mine, — which  'd  yer  rether 
hev,  allowin'  't  was  toss  up  and  win." 

"  Horse  !  "  said  I.  "  I  don't  know  how  bad 
he  is,  and  I  do  know  that  the  mine  is  worse 
than  nothing  to  me." 

"  Lookerhere,  stranger  !     You  're  goan  home 


20  JOHN   BRENT. 

across  lots.  You  want  a  horse.  I  'm  goan  to 
stop  here.  I  'd  jess  as  lives  gamble  off  a  hun- 
dred or  two  head  o'  bullocks  on  that  Foolonner 
Mine.  You  can't  find  ayry  man  round  here  to 
buy  out  your  interest  in  that  thar  heap  er  stun 
an  the  hole  it  cum  out  of.  It  '11  cost  you 
more  'n  the  hul  's  wuth  ef  you  go  down  to 
San  Frisco  and  wait  tell  some  fool  comes  along 
what 's  got  gold  he  wants  to  buy  quartz  with. 
Take  time  now,  I  'm  goan  to  make  yer  a  fair 
banter." 

"  Well,  make  it." 

"  I  stump  you  to  a  clean  swap.  My  hoss  agin 
your  mine." 

"  Done,"  said  I. 

"  I  allowed  you  'd  do  it.  This  here  is  one  er 
them  swaps,  when  both  sides  gits  stuck.  I  git 
the  Foolonner  Mine,  what  I  can't  make  go,  and 
you  '11  be  a  fool  on  a  crittur  what  '11  go  a  heap 
more  'n  you  '11  want.     Haw !  haw  !  " 

And  Gerrian  laughed  a  Pike's  laugh  at  his 
pun.  It  was  a  laugh  that  had  been  stunted  in 
its  childhood  by  the  fever  and  ague,  and  so  had 
grown  up  husk  without  heart. 

"  Have  the  black  caught,"  said  I,  "  and  we  '11 
clinch  the  bargain  at  once." 

There  was  a  Mexican  vaquero  slouching  about. 
Gerrian  called  to  him. 

"  0  Hozay  !   kesty  Sinyaw  cumprader  curwol 


GEKRIAN'S  RANCH.  21 

yow  nigereeto.     Wamos  addelanty !     Corral  ciir- 
wolyose  toethoso ! " 

Pike  Spanish  that !  If  the  Mexicans  choose  to 
understand  it,  why  should  Pikes  study  CastiHan  ? 
But  we  must  keep  a  sharp  look-out  on  the  new 
words  that  come  to  us  from  California,  else  our 
new  language  will  be  full  of  foundlings  with  no 
traceable  parentage.  We  should  beware  of  heap- 
ing up  problems  for  the  lexicographers  of  the 
twentieth  century :  they  ought  to  be  free  for  har- 
monizing the  universal  language,  half-Teutonic, 
half-Romanic,  with  little  touches  of  Mandingo 
and  Mandan. 

The  bukkarer,  as  Gerrian's  Spanish  entitled 
Hozay,  comprehended  enough  of  the  order  to 
know  that  he  was  to  drive  up  the  horses.  He 
gave  me  a  Mexican's  sulky  stare,  muttered  a  ca- 
ramba  at  my  rashness,  and  lounged  off,  first  tak- 
ing a  lasso  from  its  peg  in  the  court. 

"  Come  in,  stranger,"  said  Gerrian,  "  before  we 
start,  and  take  a  drink  of  some  of  this  here  Mis- 
sion Dolorous  wine." 

"  How  does  that  go  down  ?  "  said  he,  pouring 
out  golden  juices  into  a  cracked  tumbler. 

It  was  the  veiy  essence  of  California  sunshine, 

—  sherry  with  a  richness  that  no  sherry  ever  had, 

—  a  somewhat  fiery  beverage,  but  without  any 
harshness  or  crudity.  Age  would  better  it,  as 
age  betters  the  work  of  a  young  genius  ;  but  still 


22  JOKN   BEENT. 

tnere  is  something  in  the  youth  wd  would  not  wil- 
lingly resign. 

"  Very  fine,"  said  I ;  "it  is  romantic  old  Spain, 
with  ardent  young  America  interfused." 

"  Some  likes  it,"  says  Gerrian  ;  "  but  taint  like 
good  old  Argee  to  me.  I  can't  git  nothin'  as 
sweet  as  the  taste  of  yaller  corn  into  sperit.  But 
I  reckon  thar  ken  be  stuff  made  out  er  grapes 
what  '11  make  aU  owdoors  stan'  round.  This  yer 
wuz  made  by  the  priests.  What  ken  you  spect 
of  priests  ?  They  ain't  more  'n  haff  men  nohow. 
I  'm  goan  to  plant  a  wineyard  er  my  own,  and 
'fore  you  cum  out  to  buy  another  quartz  mine, 
I  '11  hev  some  of  ther  strychnine  what  'U  wax 
Burbon  County  's  much  's  our  inyans  here  ken 
wax  them  low-lived  smellers  what  they  grow  to 
old  Pike." 


CHAPTER    III. 


DON  FULANO. 


Hector  of  Troy,  Homer's  Hector,  was  my  first 
hero  in  literature.  Not  because  he  loved  his 
wife  and  she  him,  as  I  fancy  that  noble  wives 
and  husbands  love  in  the  times  of  trial  now ;  but 
simply  because  he  was  Hippodamos,  one  that 
could  master  the  horse. 

As  soon  as  I  knew  Hector,  I  began  to  emulate 
him.  My  boyish  experiments  were  on  donkeys, 
and  failed.  "I  could  n't  wallop  'em.  0  no, 
no !  "  That  was  my  difficulty.  Had  I  but  met 
an  innocent  and  docile  donkey  in  his  downy 
years  !  Alas  !  only  the  perverted  donkey,  bristly 
and  incorrigible,  came  under  my  tutorship.  I 
was  too  humane  to  give  him  stick  enough,  and  so 
he  mastered  me. 

Horses  I  learned  to  govern  by  the  law  of  love. 
The  relation  of  friendship  once  established  be- 
tween man  and  horse,  there  is  no  trouble.  A 
centaur  is  created.  The  man  wills  whither  ;  the 
horse,  at  the  will  of  his  better  half,  does  his  best 
to  go  thither.   I  became,  very  early,  Hippodamos, 


24  JOHN   BRENT. 

not  by  force,  but  by  kindness.  All  lower  beings, 
—  fiendish  beings  apart,  —  unless  spoilt  by  treach- 
ery, seek  the  society  of  the  higher ;  as  man,  by 
nature,  loves  God.  Horses  will  do  all  they  know 
for  men,  if  man  will  only  let  them.  All  they 
need  is  a  slight  hint  to  help  their  silly  willhig 
brains,  and  they  dash  with  ardor  at  their  business 
of  galloping  a  mile  a  minute,  or  twenty  miles  an 
hour,  or  of  leaping  a  gully,  or  pulling  tonnage. 
They  put  so  much  reckless,  break-neck  frenzy  in 
their  attempt  to  please  and  obey  the  royal  per- 
sonage on  their  back,  that  he  needs  to  be  brave 
indeed  to  go  thoroughly  with  them. 

The  finer  the  horse,  the  more  delicate  the  mag- 
netism between  him  and  man.  Knight  and  his 
steed  have  an  afiinity  for  each  other.  I  fancied 
that  Gerrian's  black,  after  our  mutual  friendly 
recognition  on  the  prairie,  would  like  me  better 
as  our  intimacy  grew. 

After  hobnobbing  with  cracked  tumblers  of  the 
Mission  Dolores  wine,  Gerrian  and  I  mounted 
our  mustangs  and  rode  toward  the  corral. 

All  about  on  the  broad  slopes,  the  ranchero's 
countless  cattle  were  feeding.  It  was  a  patri- 
archal scene.  The  local  patriarch,  in  a  red  flan- 
nel shirt  purpled  by  sun  and  shower,  in  old 
buckskin  breeches  with  the  fringe  worn  away 
and  decimated  along  its  files  whenever  a  thong 
was    wanted,    in     red-topped    boots    with    the 


DON   FULANO.  25 

maker's  name,  Abel  Cusliiug,  Lynn,  Mass., 
stamped  in  gilt  letters  on  the  red,  —  in  such 
costume  the  local  patriarch  hardly  recalled  those 
turbaned  and  white-robed  sheiks  of  yore,  Abra- 
ham and  his  Isaac.  But  he  represented  the 
same  period  of  history  modernized,  and  the 
same  type  of  man  Americanized  ;  and  I  have 
no  doubt  his  posterity  will  turn  out  better  than 
Abraham's,  and  scorn  peddling,  be  it  Austrian 
loans  or  "  ole  clo'." 

The  cattle  scampered  away  from  us,  as  we 
rode,  hardly  less  wild  than  the  buffaloes  on  the 
Platte.  Whenever  we  rose  on  the  crest  of  a 
hillock,  we  could  see  several  thousands  of  the 
little  fierce  bullocks,  —  some  rolling  away  in 
flight,  in  a  black  breadth,  like  a  shaken  carpet ; 
some  standing  in  little  groups,  like  field  officers 
at  a  review,  watching  the  movements  as  squad- 
ron after  squadron  came  and  went  over  the 
scene ;  some,  as  arbitrators  and  spectators,  sur- 
rounding a  pair  of  champion  bulls  butting  and 
bellowing  in  some  amphitheatre  among  the 
swells  of  land. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  stranger,"  said  Ger- 
rian,  halting  and  looking  proudly  over  the  land- 
scape, "  I  would  n't  swop  my  place  with  General 
Price  at  the  White  House." 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  I;  "bullocks  are 
better  company  than  office-seekers." 

2 


26  JOHN  BRENT. 

It  was  a  grand,  simple  scene.  All  open  coun- 
try, north  and  south,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see. 
Eastward  rose  the  noble  blue  barrier  of  the  Si- 
erra, with  here  and  there  a  field,  a  slope,  a  spot, 
or  a  pinnacle  of  the  snow  that  names  it  Nevada. 
A  landscape  of  larger  feeling  than  any  we  can 
show  in  the  old  States,  on  the  tame  side  of  the 
continent.  Those  rigorous  mountain  outlines 
on  the  near  horizon  utterly  dwarf  all  our  wood- 
ed hills,  Alleghanies,  Greens,  Whites.  A  race 
trained  within  sight  of  sucli  loftiness  of  nature 
must  needs  be  a  loftier  race  than  any  this  land 
has  yet  known.  Put  cheap  types  of  mankind 
within  the  influence  of  the  sublimities,  and  they 
are  cowed ;  but  the  great-hearted  expand  with 
vaster  visions.  A  great  snow-peak,  like  one  of 
the  Tacomas  of  Oregon,  is  a  terrible  monitor 
over  a  land  ;  but  it  is  also  a  benignant  sover- 
eign, a  presence,  calm,  solemn,  yet  not  without 
a  cheering  and  jubilant  splendor.  A  range  of 
sharp,  peremptory  mountains,  like  the  Sierra  Ne- 
vada, insists  upon  taking  thought  away  from  the 
grovelling  flats  where  men  do  their  grubbing  for 
the  bread  of  daily  life,  and  up  to  tlie  master 
heights,  whither  in  all  ages  seers  have  gone  to 
be  nearer  mystery  and  God. 

It  was  late  August.  All  the  tall  grass  and  wild 
oats  and  barley,  over  lift,  level,  and  hollow,  were 
ripe  yellow  or  warm  brown,  —  a  golden  mantle 


DON  FULANO.    ■  27 

over  the  goldeu  soil.  There  were  but  two  colors 
m  the  simple,  broad  picture,  —  clear,  deep,  scin- 
tillating blue  in  the  sky,  melting  blue  in  the 
mountains,  and  all  the  earth  a  golden  surging 
sea. 

"  It 's  a  bigger  country  'n  old  Pike  or  Missourer 
anywhar,"  says  Gerrian,  giving  his  'curwolyow' 
the  spur.  "  I  'd  ruther  hev  this,  even  ef  the 
shakes  wuz  here  instidd  of  thar,  and  liavin'  their 
grab  regiar  twicet  a  day  all  the  year  round." 

As  we  rode  on,  our  ponies  half  hidden  in  the 
dry,  rustling  grass  of  a  hollow,  a  tramp  of  hoofs 
came  to  us  with  the  wind,  —  a  thrilling  sound  ! 
with  something  free  and  vigorous  in  it  that  the 
charge  of  trained  squadrons  never  has. 

"  Thar  they  come  !  "  cried  Gerrian ;  "  thar  's  a 
rigiment  wuth  seeing.  They  can't  show  you  a 
sight  like  that  to  the  old  States." 

"  No  indeed.  The  best  thing  to  be  hoped  there 
in  the  way  of  stampede  is  when  a  horse  kicks 
through  a  dash-board,  kills  a  coachman,  shatters 
a  carriage,  dissipates  a  load  of  women  and  chil- 
dren, and  goes  tearing  down  a  turnpike,  with 
'  sold  to  an  omnibus '  awaiting  him  at  the  end  of 
his  run-away  !  " 

We  halted  to  pass  the  coming  army  of  riderless 
steeds  in  review. 

There  they  came !  Gerrian's  whole  band  of 
horses  in  full  career  !     First,  their  heads  suddenly 


28  JOHN   BEENT. 

lifted  above  a  crest  of  the  prairie  ;  then  they 
burst  over,  like  the  foam  and  spray  of  a  black, 
stormy  wave  when  a  blast  strikes  it,  and  wildly 
swept  by  us  with  manes  and  tails  flaring  in  the 
wind.  It  was  magnificent.  My  heart  of  a  horse- 
man leaped  in  my  breast.     "  Hurrah !  "  I  cried. 

"  Hurrah  't  is  !  "  said  Gerrian. 

The  herd  dashed  by  in  a  huddle,  making  for 
the  corral. 

Just  behind,  aloof  from  the  rush  and  scamper 
of  his  less  noble  brethren,  came  the  black,  my 
purchase,  my  old  friend. 

"  Ef  you  ever  ride  or  back  that  curwolyow," 
says  Gerrian,  "  I  '11  eat  a  six-shooter,  loaded  and 
capped." 

"  You  'd  better  begin,  then,  at  once,"  rejoined 
I,  "  whetting  your  teeth  on  Derringers.  I  mean 
to  ride  him,  and  you  shall  be  by  when  I  do  it." 

It  was  grand  to  see  a  horse  that  understood 
and  respected  himself  so  perfectly.  One,  too, 
that  meant  the  world  should  know  that  he  was 
the  very  chiefest  chief  of  his  race,  proud  with 
the  blood  of  a  thousand  kings.  How  masterly 
he  looked !  How  untamably  he  stepped !  The 
herd  was  galloping  furiously.  He  disdained  to 
break  into  a  gaUop.  He  trotted  after,  a  hundred 
feet  behind  the  hindmost,  with  large  and  liberal 
action.  And  even  at  this  half  speed  easily  over- 
taking his  slower  comrades,  he  from  time  to  time 


DON  FULANO.  29 

paused,  bounded  in  the  air,  tossed  his  head, 
flung  out  his  legs,  and  then  strode  on  again, 
writhing  all  over  with  suppressed  power. 

There  was  not  a  white  spot  upon  him,  except 
where  a  flake  of  foam  from  his  indignant  nostril 
had  caught  upon  Ms  flank.  A  thorough-bred 
horse,  with  the  perfect  tail  and  silky  mane  of  a 
noble  race.  His  coat  glistened,  as  if  the  best 
groom  in  England  had  just  given  him  the  iinal 
touches  of  his  toilette  for  a  canter  in  Kotten 
Row.  But  it  seems  a  sin  to  compare  such  a  free 
rover  of  the  prairie  with  any  less  favored  brother, 
who  needs  a  groom,  and  has  felt  a  currycomb. 

Hard  after  the  riderless  horses  came  Jos^, 
the  vaquero,  on  a  fast  mustang.  As  he  rode,  he 
whirled  his  lasso  with  easy  turn  of  the  wrist. 

The  black,  trottmg  still,  and  halting  still  to 
curvet  and  caracole,  turned  back  his  head  con- 
temptuously at  his  pursuer.  "  Mexicans  may 
chase  their  own  ponies  and  break  their  spirit  by 
brutality ;  but  an  American  horse  is  no  more 
to  be  touched  by  a  Mexican  than  an  American 
man.  Bah!  make  your  cast!  Dont  trifle  with 
your  lasso !  I  challenge  you.  Jerk  away,  Sefior 
Greaser !  I  give  you  as  fair  a  chance  as  you 
could  wish." 

So  the  black  seemed  to  say,  with  his  provoking 
backward  glance  and  his  whinny  of  disdain. 

Jos6  took  the  hint.     He  dug  cruel  spurs  into 


30  JOHN   BEENT. 

his  horse.  The  mustang  leaped  forward.  The 
black  gave  a  tearing  bound  and  quickened  his 
pace,  but  still  waited  the  will  of  his  pursuer. 

They  were  just  upon  us,  chased  and  chaser, 
thundering  down  the  slope,  when  the  vaquero, 
checking  his  wrist  at  the  turn,  flung  his  lasso 
itraight  as  an  arrow  for  the  black's  head. 

I  could  hear  the  hide  rope  sing  through  the 
Bummer  air,  for  a  moment  breezeless. 

Will  he  be  taken!  Will  horse  or  man  be 
victor ! 

The  loop  of  the  lasso  opened  like  a  hoop.  It 
hung  poised  for  one  instant  a  few  feet  before  the 
horse's  head,  vibrating  m  the  air,  keeping  its 
circle  perfect,  waiting  for  the  vaquero's  pull  to 
tighten  about  that  proud  neck  and  those  swelling 
shoulders. 

Hurrah ! 

Through  it  went  the  black. 

With  one  brave  bound  he  dashed  through  the 
open  loop.  He  touched  only  to  spurn  its  vain 
assault  with  his  hindmost  hoof. 

"  Hurrah  !  "  I  cried. 

"  Hurrah  !  't  is,"  shouted  Gerrian. 

Jos^  dragged  in  his  spurned  lasso. 

The  black,  with  elated  head,  and  tail  waving 
like  a  banner,  sprang  forward,  closed  in  with  the 
caballada;  they  parted  for  his  passage,  he  took 
his  leadership,  and  presently  was  lost  with  liig 
Buite  over  the  swells  of  the  prairie. 


DON   FULANO.  31 

"  Mucho  malicho ! "  cried  Gerrian  to  Jos^, 
not  knowing  that  his  Californian  Spanish  was  in- 
terpreting Hamlet.  "  He  ought  to  hev  druv  'em 
straight  tc  corral.  But  I  don't  feel  so  sharp  set 
on  lettin'  you  hev  that  black  after  that  shine. 
Reg'lar  circus,  only  thar  never  was  no  sich  seen 
in  no  circus !  You  '11  never  ride  him,  allowin' 
he  's  cotched,  no  more  'n  you  HI  ride  a  alhgator." 

Meantime,  loping  on,  we  had  come  in  sight  of 
the  corral.  There,  to  our  great  surprise,  the 
whole  band  of  horses  had  voluntarily  entered. 
They  were  putting  their  heads  together  as  the 
manner  of  social  horses  is,  and  going  through 
kissing  manoeuvres  in  little  knots,  which  pres- 
ently were  broken  up  by  the  heels  of  some  ill- 
mannered  or  jealous  brother.  They  were  very 
probably  discussing  the  black's  act  of  horseman- 
ship, as  men  after  the  ballet  discuss  the  first  enr 
trechat  of  the  danseuse. 

We  rode  up  and  fastened  our  horses.  The 
black  was  within  the  cort-al,  pawing  the  ground, 
neighing,  and  whinnying.  His  companions  kept 
at  a  respectful  distance. 

"  Don't  send  in  Jos^  ! "  said  I  to  Gerrian. 
"  Only  let  him  keep  off  the  horses,  so  that  I  shall 
not  be  kicked,  and  I  will  try  my  hand  at  the 
black  alone." 

"  I  '11  hev  'em  all  turned  out  except  that  black 
devil,  and  then  you  ken  go  in  and  take  your  cwn 


32  JOHN   BRENT. 

resk  with  him.  Akkee  Jose  !  "  continued  the  ran- 
chero,  "  fwarer  toethose !  Day  her  hel  diablo  !  " 

Josd  drove  the  herd  out  of  the  staked  enclos- 
ure. The  black  showed  no  special  disposition 
to  follow.  He  trotted  about  at  his  ease,  snuffing 
at  the  stakes  and  bars. 

I  entered  alone.  Presently  he  began  to  repeat 
the  scene  of  our  first  meeting  on  the  prairie.  It 
was  not  many  minutes  before  we  were  good 
friends.  He  would  bear  my  caresses  and  my  arm 
about  his  neck,  and  that  was  all  for  an  hour. 
At  last,  after  a  good  hour's  work,  I  persuaded 
him  to  accept  a  halter.  Then  by  gentle  seduc- 
tions I  induced  him  to  start  and  accompany  me 
homeward. 

Gerrian  and  the  Mexican  looked  on  in  great 
wonderment. 

"  Praps  that  is  the  best  way,"  said  the  modern 
patriarch,  "  ef  a  man  has  got  patience.  Looker 
here,  stranger,  ain't  you  a  terrible  fellow  among 
women  ?  " 

I  confessed  my  want  of  experience. 

"  Well,  you  will  be  when  your  time  comes.  I 
allowed  from  seeing  you  handle  that  thar  boss, 
that  you  had  got  your  hand  in  on  women,  — 
they  is  the  wust  devils  to  tame  I  ever  seed." 

I  had  made  my  arrangements  to  start  about 
the  first  of  September,  with  the  Sacramento  mail- 


DON   FULANO.  83 

riders,  a  brace  of  jolly  dogs,  brave  fellows,  who, 
with  their  scalps  as  well  secured  as  might  be,  ran 
the  gauntlet  every  alternate  month  to  Salt  Lake. 
That  was  long  before  the  days  of  coaches.  No 
pony  express  was  dreamed  of.  A  trip  across  the 
plains,  without  escort  or  caravan,  had  still  some 
elements  of  heroism,  if  it  have  not  to-day. 

Meantime  one  of  my  ardent  partners  from 
San  Francisco  arrived  to  take  my  place  at  the 
mine. 

"  I  don't  think  that  quartz  looks  quite  so  goldy 
as  it  did  at  a  distance,"  said  he. 

"  Well,"  said  old  Gerrian,  who  had  come  over 
to  take  possession  of  his  share  of  our  bargain  ; 
"  it  is  whiter  'n  it 's  yaller.  It  does  look  about 
as  bad  off  fur  slugs  as  the  cellar  of  an  Indiana 
bank.  But  I  b'leeve  in  luck,  and  luck  is  olluz 
comin'  at  me  with  its  head  down  and  both  eyes 
shet.  I  'm  goan  to  shove  bullocks  down  this  here 
hole,  or  the  price  of  bullocks,  until  I  make  it 
pay." 

And  it  is  a  fact,  that  by  the  aid  of  Gerrian' s 
capital,  and  improved  modern  machinery,  after  a 
long  struggle,  the  Fulano  mine  has  begun  to  yield 
a  sober,  quiet  profit. 

My  wooing  of  the  black  occupied  all  my  leisure 

during  my  last  few  days.     Every  day,  a  circle  of 

Pikes  collected  to  see  my  management.     I  hope 

they  took  lessons  in  the  law  of  kindness.     The 

8*  o 


34  JOHN   BRENT. 

horse  was  well  known  throughout  the  country, 
and  my  bargain  with  Gerrian  was  noised  abroad. 

The  black  would  tolerate  no  one  but  me.  With 
me  he  established  as  close  a  brotherhood  as  can 
be  between  man  and  beast.  He  gave  me  to  un- 
derstand, by  playful  protest,  that  it  was  only  by 
his  good  pleasure  that  I  was  permitted  on  his 
back,  and  that  he  endured  saddle  and  bridle  ;  as 
to  spur  or  whip,  they  were  not  thought  of  by 
either.  He  did  not  obey,  but  consented.  I  ex- 
ercised no  control.  We  were  of  one  mind.  We 
became  a  Centaur.  I  loved  that  horse  as  I  have 
loved  nothing  else  yet,  except  the  other  person- 
ages with  whom  and  for  whom  he  acted  in  this 
history. 

I  named  him  Don  Fulano. 

I  had  put  my  mine  into  him.  He  represented 
to  me  the  whole  visible,  tangible  result  of  two 
long,  workaday  years,  dragged  out  in  that  dreary 
spot  among  the  Pikes,  with  nothing  in  view  ex- 
cept barren  hill-sides  ravaged  by  mines,  and  the 
unbeautiful  shanties  of  miners  as  rough  as  the 
landscape. 

Don  Fulano,  a  horse  that  would  not  sell,  was 
my  profit  for  the  sternest  and  roughest  work  of 
my  life !  I  looked  at  him,  and  looked  at  the 
mine,  that  pile  of  pretty  pebbles,  that  pile  of 
bogus  ore,  and  I  did  not  regret  my  bargain.  I 
never  have  regretted  it.     "  My  kingdom  for  a 


DON   FULANO.  Zh 

horse,"  —  so  much  of  a  kingdom  as  I  had,  I 
had  given. 

But  was  that  all  I  had  gained,  —  an  unsalable 
horse  for  two  years'  work?  All,  —  unless,  per- 
haps, I  conclude  to  calculate  the  incalculable ; 
unless  I  estimate  certain  moral  results  I  had 
grasped,  and  have  succeeded  in  keeping ;  unless 
I  determine  to  value  patience,  purpose,  and  pluck 
by  dollars  and  cents.  However,  I  have  said 
enough  of  myself,  and  my  share  in  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  work  of  my  story. 

Retire,  then,  Richard  Wade,  and  enter  the  real 
hero  of  the  tale. 


CHAPTER   lY. 


JOHN  BRENT. 


A  MAN  who  does  not  love  luxury  is  merely  an 
incomplete  man,  or,  if  he  prefers,  an  ignoramus. 
A  man  who  cannot  dispense  with  luxury,  and 
who  does  not  love  hard  fare,  hard  bed,  hard 
travel,  and  all  manner  of  robust,  vigorous,  tense 
work,  is  a  weakling  and  a  soft.  Sybaris  is  a 
pretty  town,  rose-leaves  are  a  dehcate  mattrass, 
Lydian  measures  are  dulcet  to  soul  and  body  : 
also,  the  wilderness  is  "no  mean  city";  hemlock 
or  heather  for  couch,  brocken  for  curtain,  are  not 
cruelty ;  prairie  gales  are  a  brave  lullaby  for 
adults. 

Simple  furniture  and  simple  fare  a  campaigner 
needs  for  the  plains,  —  for  chamber  furniture,  a 
pair  of  blankets  ;  for  kitchen  furniture,  a  frying- 
pan  and  a  coffee-pot ;  for  table  furniture,  a  tin 
mug  and  his  bowie-knife :  Sybaris  adds  a  tin 
plate,  a  spoon,  and  even  a  fork.  The  list  of  pro- 
visions is  as  short,  —  pork,  flour,  and  coffee  ;  that 
is  all,  unless  Sybaris  should  indulge  in  a  modi- 
cum of  tea,  a  dose  or  two  of  sugar,  and  a  vial 
cf  vinegar  for  holidays. 


JOHN   BRENT,    •  37 

1  had  several  days  for  preparation,  until  my 
companions,  the  mail-riders,  should  arrive.  One 
morning  I  was  busy  making  up  my  packs  of  such 
luxuries  as  I  have  mentioned  for  the  journey, 
when  I  heard  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet,  and  ob- 
served a  stranger  approach  and  ride  up  to  the 
door  of  my  shanty.  He  was  mounted  upon  a 
powerful  iron-gray  horse,  and  drove  a  pack  mule 
and  an  Indian  pony. 

My  name  was  on  an  elaborately  painted  shingle 
over  the  door.  It  was  my  own  handiwork,  and 
quite  a  lion  in  that  region.  I  felt,  whenever  I 
inspected  that  bit  of  high  art,  that,  fail  or  win  at 
the  mine,  I  had  a  resource.  Indeed,  my  Pike 
neighbors  seemed  to  consider  that  I  was  unjusti- 
fiably burying  my  artistic  talents.  Many  a  not 
unseemly  octagonal  slug,  with  Moffatt  &  Co.'s 
imprimatur  of  value,  had  been  offered  me  if  I 
would  paint  up  some  miner's  hell,  as  "The 
True  Paradise,"  or  "  The  Shades  and  Caffy  de 
Paris." 

The  new-comer  read  my  autograph  on  the 
shingle,  looked  about,  caught  sight  of  me  at 
work  in  the  hot  shade,  dismounted,  fastened  his 
horses,  and  came  toward  me.  It  was  not  the 
fashion  in  California,  at  that  time,  to  volunteer 
civility  or  acquaintance.  Men  had  to  announce 
themselves,  and  prove  their  claims.  I  sat  where 
I  was,  and  surveyed  the  stranger. 


88  JOHN  BRENT. 

"  The  Adonis  of  the  copper-skins  !  "  I  said  to 
myself.  "  This  is  the  '  Young  Eagle,'  or  the 
'  Sucking  Dove,'  or  the  '  Maiden's  Bane,'  or 
some  other  great  chief  of  the  cleanest  Lidian 
tribe  on  the  continent.  A  beautiful  youth  !  0 
Fenimore,  why  are  you  dead !  There  are  a 
dozen  romances  in  one  look  of  that  young  brave. 
One  chapter  might  be  written  on  his  fringed 
buckskin  shirt ;  one  on  his  equally  fringed  leg- 
gings, with  tlieir  stripe  of  porcupine-quills ;  and 
one  short  chapter  on  his  moccasons,  with  their 
scarlet  cloth  instep-piece,  and  his  cap  of  otter  fur 
decked  with  an  eagle's  feather.  What  a  poem 
the  fellow  is  !  I  wish  I  was  an  Indian  myself  for 
such  a  companion ;  or,  better,  a  squaw,  to  be 
made  love  to  by  him." 

As  he  approached,  I  perceived  that  he  was 
not  copper,  but  bronze.  A  pale-face  certainly! 
That  is,  a  pale-face  tinged  by  the  brazen  sun  of 
a  California  summer.  Not  less  handsome,  how- 
ever, as  a  Saxon,  than  an  Indian  brave.  As 
soon  as  I  identified  him  as  one  of  my  own  race 
I  began  to  fancy  I  had  seen  him  before. 

"  If  he  were  but  shaved  and  clijDped,  black- 
coated,  booted,  gloved,  hatted  with  a  shiny  cylin- 
der, disarmed  of  his  dangerous  looking  arsenal 
and  armed  with  a  plaything  of  a  cane,  —  in  short 
if  he  were  metamorphosed  from  a  knight-errant 
into   a  carpet-knight,   changed   from   a   smooth 


JOHN  BRENT.  39 

rough  into  a  smooth  smooth,  —  seems  to  me  I 
should  know  him,  or  know  that  I  had  kiiown 
him  once." 

He  came  up,  laid  his  hand  familiarly  on  my 
arm,  and  said,  "  What,  "Wade  ?  Don't  you  re- 
member me  ?     John  Brent." 

"  I  hear  your  voice.  I  begin  to  see  you  now. 
Hurrah  ! " 

"  How  was  it  I  did  not  recognize  you,"  said  I, 
after  a  fraternal  greeting. 

"  Ten  years  have  presented  me  with  this  for  a 
disguise,"  said  he,  giving  his  moustache  a  twirl. 
"  Ten  years  of  experience  have  taken  all  the  girl 
out  of  me." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  these  ten  years, 
since  College,  0  many-sided  man  ?  " 

"  Grinding  my  sides  against  the  Adamant, 
every  one." 

"  Has  your  diamond  begun  to  see  light,  and 
shine  ?  " 

"  The  polishing-dust  dims  it  still," 

"  How  have  you  found  life,  kind  or  cruel  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not  kind,  hardly  cruel,  unless  in- 
difference is  cruelty." 

"  But  indifference,  want  of  sympathy,  must 
have  been  a  positive  relief  after  the  aggressive 
cruelty  of  your  younger  days." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing,  Richard  ?  " 

"  Everything  that  Yankees  do,  —  digging  last." 


40  JOHN  BRENT. 

"  That  has  been  my  business,  too,  as  well  as 
polishing." 

"  The  old  work,  I  suppose,  to  root  out  lies 
and  plant  in  truth." 

"That  same  slow  task.  Tunnelling  too,  to 
find  my  way  out  of  the  prison  of  doubt  into  the 
freedom  of  faith." 

"  You  are  out,  then,  at  last.  Happy  and  at 
peace,  I  hope." 

"At  peace,  hardly  happy.  How  can  such  a 
lonely  fellow  be  happy  ?  " 

"  We  are  peers  in  bereavement  now.  My 
family  are  all  gone,  except  two  little  children 
of  my  sister." 

"  Not  quite  peers.  You  remember  your  rela- 
tives tenderly.     I  have  no  such  comfort." 

Odd  talk  this  may  seem,  to  hold  with  an  old 
friend.  Ten  years  apart !  We  ought  to  have 
met  in  merrier  mood.  We  might,  if  we  had 
parted  with  happy  memories.  But  it  was  not 
so.  Youth  had  been  a  harsh  season  to  Brent. 
If  Fate  destines  a  man  to  teach,  she  compels  him 
to  learn,  —  bitter  lessons,  too,  whether  he  will  or 
no.  Brent  was  a  man  of  genius.  All  experi 
ence,  therefore,  piled  itself  upon  him.  He  must 
learn  the  immortal  consolations  by  probing  all 
suifering  himself. 

Brent's  story  is  a  short  one  or  a  long  one.  li 
can  be  told  in  a  page,  or  in  a  score  of  volumes 


JOHN  BRENT.  il 

We  Lad  met  fourteen  years  before  in  the  same 
pew  of  Berkeley  College  Chapel,  grammars  by 
our  side  and  tutors  before  us,  two  well-crammed 
candidates  for  the  Freshman  Class.  Brent  was 
a  delicate,  beautiful,  dreamy  boy.  My  counter- 
part. I  was  plain  prose,  and  needed  the  poetic 
element.  We  became  friends.  I  was  steady; 
he  was  erratic.  I  was  calm ;  he  was  passionate. 
I  was  reasonably  happy ;  he  was  totally  miser- 
able.    For  good  cause. 

The  cause  was  this ;  and  it  has  broken  weaker 
hearts  than  Brent's.  His  heart  was  made  of 
stuff  that  does  not  know  how  to  break. 

Dr.  Swerger  was  the  cause  of  Brent's  misery. 
The  Reverend  Dr.  Swerger  was  a  brutal  man. 
One  who  believes  that  God  is  vengeance  natu- 
rally imitates  his  God,  and  does  not  better  his 
model. 

Swerger  was  Brent's  step-father.  Mrs.  Brent 
was  pretty,  silly,  rich,  and  a  widow.  Swerger 
wanted  his  wife  pretty,  and  not  too  wise ;  and 
that  she  was  rich  balanced,  perhaps  a  little  more 
than  balanced,  the  slight  objection  of  widow- 
hood. 

Swerger  naturally  hated  his  step-son.  One  in- 
tuition of  Brent's  was  worth  all  the  thoughts  of 
Swerger' s  life-time.  A  clergyman  who  starts 
with  believing  in  hells,  devils,  original  sin,  and 
such  crudities,  can  never  be  anything  in  the  nme- 


42  JOHN  BRENT. 

teentli  century  but  a  tyrant  or  a  nuisance,  if  lie 
has  any  logic,  as  fortunately  few  of  such  misbe- 
lievers have.  Swerger  had  logic.  So  had  the 
boy  Brent,  —  the  logic  of  a  true,  pure,  loving 
heart.  He  could  not  stand  Swerger's  coming 
into  his  dead  father's  house  and  deluding  his 
JBother  with  a  black  fanaticism. 

So  Swerger  gave  him  to  understand  that  he 
was  a  child  of  hell.  He  won  his  wife  to  shrink 
from  her  son.  Between  them  they  lacerated  the 
boy.  He  was  a  brilliant  fellow,  quite  the  king 
of  us  all.  But  he  worked  under  a  cloud.  He 
could  not  get  at  any  better  religion  than  Swer- 
ger's; and  perhaps  there  was  none  better  —  or 
much  better —  to  be  had  at  that  time. 

One  day  matters  came  to  a  quarrel.  Swerger 
cursed  his  step-son ;  of  course  not  in  the  same 
terms  the  sailors  used  on  Long  "Wharf,  but  with 
no  better  spirit.  The  mother,  cowed  by  her 
husband,  backed  him,  and  abandoned  the  boy. 
They  drove  him  out  of  the  house,  to  go  where  he 
would.  He  came  to  me.  I  gave  him  half  my 
quarters,  and  tried  to  cheer  him.  No  use.  This 
bitter  wrong  to  his  love  to  God  and  to  man  al- 
most crushed  him.  He  brooded  and  despaired. 
He  began  to  fancy  himself  the  lost  soul  Swerger 
had  callbd  him.  I  saw  that  he  would  die  or  go 
mad ;  or,  if  he  had  strength  enough  to  react,  it 
would  be  toward  a  hapless  rebellion  against  con- 


JOHN  BRENT.  43 

ventional  laws,  and  so  make  his  blight  ruin.  1 
hurried  him  off  to  Europe,  for  change  of  scene. 
That  was  ten  years  ago,  and  I  had  not  seen  him 
since.  I  knew,  however,  that  his  mother  was 
visited  by  compunctions ;  that  she  wished  to  be 
reconciled  to  her  son  ;  that  Swerger  refused,  and 
renewed  his  anathemas ;  that  he  bullied  the  poor 
little  woman  to  death  ;  that  Brent  had  to  wring 
the  property  out  of  him  by  a  long  lawsuit,  which 
the  Swergerites  considered  an  unconstitutional 
and  devilish  proceeding,  another  proof  of  total 
depravity.  Miserable  business  !  It  went  near  to 
crush  all  the  innocence,  faith,  hope,  and  religion 
out  of  my  friend's  life. 

Of  course  this  experience  had  a  tendency  to 
drive  Brent  out  of  the  common  paths,  to  make 
him  a  seer  instead  of  a  doer.  The  vulgar  can- 
not comprehend  that,  when  a  man  is  selected  by 
character  and  circumstance,  acting  together  un- 
der the  name  of  destiny,  to  be  a  seer,  he  must 
see  to  the  end  before  he  begins  to  say  what  he 
sees,  to  be  a  guide,  a  monitor,  and  a  helper.  The 
vulgar,  therefore,  called  Brent  a  wasted  life,  a 
man  of  genius  manque,  a  pointless  investigator,  a 
purposeless  dreamer.  The  vulgar  loves  to  make 
up  its  mind  prematurely.  The  vulgar  cannot 
abide  a  man  who  lives  a  blameless  life  so  far  as 
personal  conduct  goes,  and  yet  declines  to  accept 
worldly  tests  of  success,  worldly  principles  of 


44  JOHN   BEENT. 

action.  K  a  man  rebels  against  laws,  and  takes 
the  side  of  vice,  that  the  vulgar  can  comprehend ; 
but  rebellion  on  the  side  of  virtue  is  revolution- 
ary, destroys  all  the  old  landmarks,  must  be 
crucified. 

Brent,  therefore,  boy  and  man,  had  had  tough 
experience.  I  knew  of  his  career,  though  we 
had  not  met.  He  had  wished  and  attempted, 
perhaps  prematurely,  to  make  his  fine  genius  of 
definite  use.  He  wanted  to  make  the  nation's 
prayers ;  but  the  Swergerites  pronounced  his 
prayers  Paganism.  He  wanted  to  put  the  na- 
tion's holiest  thoughts  into  poetry ;  they  called 
his  poetry  impious.  He  wanted  to  stir  up  the 
young  men  of  his  day  to  a  franker  stand  on  the 
side  of  genuine  liberty,  and  a  keener  hatred  of 
all  slavery,  and  so  to  uphold  chivalry  and  hero- 
ism ;  the  cynical  people  scoffed,  they  said  he 
would  get  over  his  boyish  folly,  that  he  ought 
to  have  lived  before  Bayard,  or  half-way  through 
the  millennium,  but  that  the  kind  of  stuff  he 
preached  and  wrote  with  such  unnecessary  fer- 
vor did  not  suit  the  nineteenth  century,  a  prac- 
tical country  and  a  practical  age. 

So  Brent  paused  in  his  work.  The  boyhood's 
unquestioning  ardor  went  out  of  him.  The  in- 
terregnum between  youth  and  complete  man- 
hood came.  He  gave  up  his  unripe  attempt  to 
be  a  doer,  and  turned  seer  again.     Observation 


JOHN  BRENT.  4. 


is  the  proper  business  of  a  man's  third  decade  ; 
the  less  a  spokesman  has  to  say  about  his  results 
until  thirty,  the  better,  unless  he  wants  to  eat 
his  words,  or  to  sustain  outgrown  formulas.  Brent 
discovered  this,  and  went  about  the  world  still 
pointless,  purposeless,  manque,  as  they  said,  — 
minding  his  own  business,  getting  his  facts.  His 
fortune  made  him  independent.  He  could  go 
where  he  pleased. 

This  was  the  man  who  rode  up  on  the  iron- 
gray  horse.  This  was  the  Lidianesque  Saxon 
who  greeted  me.  It  put  color  and  poetry  into 
my  sulky  life  to  see  him. 

"  Off,  old  fellow  ?  "  said  Brent,  pointing  his 
whip  at  my  traps.  "  I  can't  hear  him  squeak, 
but  I  'm  sure  there  is  pig  in  that  gunny-bag, 
and  flour  in  that  sack.  I  hope  you  're  not  away 
for  a  long  trip  just  as  I  have  come  to  squat  with 
you." 

"  No  longer  than  home  across  the  plains." 

"  Bravo !  then  we  '11  ride  together,  instead  of 
squatting  together.  Instead  of  your  teaching 
me  quartz-mining,  I  '11  guide  you  across  the 
Rocky  s." 

"  You  know  the  way,  then." 

"  Every  foot  of  it.  Last  fall  I  hunted  up  from 
Mexico  and  New  Mexico  with  an  English  friend. 
We  made  winter  head-quarters  with  Captain  Ru- 
by at  Fort  Laramie,  knocking  about  all  winter 


46  JOHN   BRENT. 

in  that  neighborhood,  and  at  the  North  among 
the  Wind  River  Mountains.  Early  in  tlie  spring 
we  went  off  toward  Luggernel  Alley  and  the 
Luggernel  Springs,  and  camped  there  for  a 
month." 

"  Luggernel  Alley  !  Luggernel  Springs  !  Those 
are  new  names  to  me ;  in  fact,  my  Rocky  Moun- 
tain geography  is  naught." 

"  You  ought  to  see  them.  Luggernel  Alley  is 
one  of  the  wonders  of  this  continent." 

So  /  think  now  that  I  have  seen  it.  It  was 
odd  too,  what  afterward  I  remembered  as  a  coin- 
cidence, that  our  first  talk  should  have  turned 
to  a  spot  where  we  were  to  do  and  to  suffer,  by 
and  by. 

"  There  is  something  Frenchy  in  the  name 
Luggernel,"  said  I. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  a  corruption  of  La  Grenouille. 
There  was  a  famous  Canadian  trapper  of  that 
name,  or  nickname.  He  discovered  the  springs. 
The  Alley,  a  magnificent  gorge,  grand  as  the  Via 
Mala,  leads  to  them.  I  will  describe  the  whole 
to  you  at  length,  some  time." 

"  Who  was  your  English  friend  ?  " 

"  Sir  Biron  Biddulph,  —  a  capital  fellow,  pink 
in  the  cheeks,  warm  in  the  heart,  strong  in  the 
shanks,  mighty  on  the  hunt," 

"  Huntmg  for  love  of  it  ?  " 

*'  No  ;  for  love  itself,  or  rather  the  lack  of  love. 


JOHN   BEENT.  47 

A  lovely  lady  in  his  native  Lancashire  would  not 
smile  ;  so  he  turned  butcher  of  buffalo,  bears, 
and  big-horn." 

"  Named  he  the  '  fair  but  frozen  maid  '  ?  " 

"  Never.  It  seems  there  is  something  hapless 
or  tragic  about  her  destiny.  She  did  not  love 
him  ;  so  he  came  away  to  forget  her.  He  made 
no  secret  of  it.  We  arrived  in  Utah  last  July, 
on  our  way  to  see  California.  There  he  got  let- 
ters from  home,  announcing,  as  he  told  me,  some 
coming  misfortune  to  the  lady.  As  a  friend,  no 
longer  a  lover,  he  proposed  to  do  what  he  could 
to  avert  the  danger.  I  left  him  in  Salt  Lake, 
preparing  to  return,  and  came  across  country 
alone." 

"  Alone  !  through  the  Indian  country,  with 
that  tempting  iron-gray,  those  tempting  packs, 
that  tempting  scalp,  with  its  love-locks  !  Why, 
the  sight  of  your  scalp  alone  would  send  a  thrill 
through  every  Indian  heart  from  Bear  Eiver  to 
the  Dalles  of  the  Columbia !  Perhaps,  by  the 
way,  you  've  been  scalped  already,  and  are  safe?" 

"  No  ;  the  mop  's  my  own  mop.  Scalp  's  all 
right.  Wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  the  brains. 
The  Indians  would  not  touch  me.  I  am  half 
savage,  you  know.  In  this  and  my  former  trip, 
I  have  become  a  privileged  character,  —  some- 
thing  of  a  medicine-man." 

"  I  suppose  you  can  talk  to  them.  You  used 
to  have  the  gift  of  tongues." 


48  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  choked  down  two  or  three  of 
their  guttural  Ungos,  and  can  sputter  them  up 
as  easily  as  I  used  to  gabble  iambic  trimeters,  I 
like  the  fellows.  They  are  not  ideal  heroes  ;  they 
have  not  succeeded  in  developing  a  civilization, 
or  in  adopting  ours,  and  therefore  I  suppose  they 
must  go  down,  as  pine-trees  go  down  to  make 
room  for  tougher  stalks  and  fruitier  growth  :  but 
I  like  the  fellows,  and  don't  believe  in  their  utter 
deviltry.  I  have  always  given  the  dogs  a  good 
name,  and  they  have  been  good  dogs  to  me.  I 
like  thorough  men,  too  ;  and  what  an  Lidian 
knows,  he  knows,  so  that  it  is  a  part  of  him.  It 
is  a  good  corrective  for  an  artificial  man  to  find 
himself  less  of  a  man,  under  certain  difficulties, 
than  a  child  of  nature.  You  know  this,  of  course, 
as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Yes ;  we  campaigners  get  close  to  the  heart 
of  Mother  Nature,  and  she  teaches  us,  tenderly 
or  roughly,  but  thoroughly.  By  the  way,  how 
did  you  find  me  out  ?  " 

"  I  heard  some  Pikes,  at  a  camp  last  night, 
talking  of  a  person  who  had  sold  a  quartz  mine 
for  a  wonderful  horse.  I  asked  the  name.  They 
told  me  yours,  and  directed  me  here.  Except  for 
this  talk,  I  should  have  gone  down  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  missed  you." 

"  Lucky  horse  !  He  brings  old  friends  to- 
gether, —  a  good  omen  !      Come  and  see  him." 


CHAPTER   Y. 


ACROSS   COUNTRY. 


I  LED  my  friend  toward  the  corral. 

"  A  fine  horse  that  gray  of  yours,"  said  I. 

"  Yes  ;  a  splendid  fellow,  —  stanch  and  tru6 
He  wiU  go  till  he  dies." 

"  In  tip-top  condition,  too.  What  do  you  call 
him  ?  " 

"  Pumps." 

"Why  Pumps?  Wliy  not  Pistons  ?  or  Cranks? 
or  Walking-Beams  ?  or  some  part  of  the  steam- 
engine  that  does  the  going  directly  ?  " 

"  You  have  got  the  wi'ong  clue.  I  named  him 
after  our  old  dancing-master.  Pumps  the  horse 
has  a  favorite  amble,  precisely  like  that  skipping 
walk  that  Pumps  the  man  used  to  set  us  for 
model,  —  a  mincing  gait,  that  prejudiced  me, 
until  I  saw  what  a  stride  he  kept  for  the  time 
when  stride  was  wanting." 

"  Here  is  my  black  gentleman.  What  do  you 
think  of  him  ?  " 

Don  Fulano  trotted  up  and  licked  a  handful 
of  corn  from  my  hand.     Corn  was  four  dollars 


60  JOHN   BKENT. 

a  bushel.  The  profits  of  the  "Foolonner"  Mine 
did  not  allow  of  such  luxuries.  But  old  Genian 
had  presented  me  with  a  sack  of  it. 

Fulano  crunched  his  corn,  snorted  his  thanks, 
and  then  snuffed  questioningly,  and  afterwards 
approvingly,  about  the  stranger, 

"  Soul  and  body  of  Bucephalus  !  "-  says  Brent. 
"  There  is  a  quadruped  that  is  a  hoese." 

"  Is  n't  he  ?  "  said  I,  thrilling  with  pride  for 
him. 

"  To  look  at  such  a  fellow  is  a  romance.  He 
is  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  ever  saw." 

"  No  exceptions  ?  " 

"Not  one." 

"  "Woman !  lovely  woman !  "  I  cried,  with 
mock  enthusiasm. 

"  If  I  had  ever  seen  a  woman  to  compare  with 
that  horse,  after  her  kind,  I  should  not  be  here." 

"  Where  then  ?  " 

"  Wherever  she  was.  Living  for  her.  Dying 
for  her.  Chasing  her  if  she  were  dragged  from 
me.     Snatching  her  from  the  jaws  of  death." 

"  Hold  hard  !  You  talk  as  furiously  as  if  you 
saw  such  a  scene  before  your  eyes." 

"  Your  horse  brings  up  all  the  chivalric  tales 
I  have  ever  read.  If  these  were  knightly  days, 
and  two  brothers  in  arms,  like  you  and  myself, 
ever  rescued  distressed  damsels  from  the  grip  of 
caitiffs  vile,  we  ought  to  be  mounted  upon  a  pair 


ACROSS   COUNTRY.  51 

of  Don  Fulanos  when  we  rode  the  miscreants 
down." 

The  fine  sensitiveness  of  a  poetic  man  like 
Brent  makes  a  prophet  of  him,  —  that  is  to  say, 
a  man  who  has  the  poet's  delicate  insight  into 
character  anticipates  everything  that  character 
will  do.  So  Brent  was  never  surprised ;  though 
I  confess  I  was,  when  I  found  men,  horses,  and 
places  doing  what  he  had  hinted  long  before. 

"  Well,"  continued  I,  ''  I  paid  two  years'  work 
for  my  horse.  Was  it  too  much  ?  Is  he  worth 
it?" 

"  Everything  is  worth  whatever  one  gives  for 
it.  The  less  you  get,  the  more  you  get.  Proved 
by  the  fact  that  the  price  of  all  life  is  death.  Ja- 
cob served  seven  years  for  an  ugly  wife ;  why 
should  n't  an  honester  man  serve  two  for  a  beau- 
tiful horse  ? " 

"  Jacob,  however,  had  a  pretty  wife  thrown  in 
when  he  showed  discontent." 

"  Perhaps  you  will.  If  the  Light  of  the  Harem 
of  Sultan  Brigham  should  see  you  prancing  on 
that  steed,  she  would  make  one  bound  to  your 
crupper  and  leave  a  dark  where  the  Liglit  was." 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  develop  a  taste  for  Mor- 
mon ladies." 

"It  is  not  very  likely.  They  are  a  second- 
hand set.  But  still  one  can  imagine  some  luck- 
less girl  with  a  doltish  father;   some  old  chap 


^  JOHN  BRENT. 

vno  aad  outlived  his  hopes  at  home,  and  fancied 
he  was  going  to  be  Melchisedec,  Moses,  and 
Abraham,  rolled  into  one,  in  Utah,  toted  out 
there  by  some  beastly  Elder,  who  wanted  the 
daughter  for  his  thirteenth.  That  would  be  a 
chance  for  you  and  Don  Fulano  to  interfere. 
I  '11  promise  you  myself  and  Pumps,  if  you 
want  to  stampede  anybody's  wives  from  the  New 
Jerusalem  as  we  go  through." 

"I  suppose  we  have  no  time  to  lose,  if  we  ex- 
pect to  make  Missouri  before  winter." 

"No.  "We  will  start  as  soon  as  you  are 
ready." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  if  you  please." 

"  To-morrow  it  is." 

To-morrow  it  was.  Having  a  comrade,  I  need 
not  wait  for  the  mail-riders.  Lucky  that  I  did 
not.  They  came  only  three  days  after  us.  But 
on  the  Humboldt,  the  Indians  met  them,  and 
obliged  them  to  doff  the  tops  of  their  heads,  as  a 
mark  of  respect  to  Indian  civilization. 

"We  started,  two  men  and  seven  animals. 
Each  of  us  had  a  pack  mule  and  a  roadster 
pony,  with  a  spare  one,  in  case  accident  should 
befall  either  of  his  wiry  brethren. 

Pumps  and  Fulano,  as  good  friends  as  their 
masters,  trotted  along  without  burden.  We  rode 
them    rarely.      Only    often    enough    to   remind 


ACROSS  COUNTRY. 


U 


them  how  a  saddle  feels,  and  that  danglmg  legs 
are  not  frightful.  They  must  be  fresh,  if  we 
should  ever  have  to  run  for  it.  We  might; 
Indians  might  cast  fanciful  glances  at  the  tops 
of  our  heads.  The  other  horses  might  give  out. 
So  Pumps,  with  his  fantastic  dancing-step,  that 
would  not  crush  a  grasshopper,  and  Fulano, 
grander,  prouder,  and  still  untamable  to  any 
one  but  me,  went  on  waiting  for  their  time  of 
action. 

I  skip  the  first  thousand  miles  of  our  journey. 
Not  that  it  was  not  exciting,  but  it  might  be 
anybody's  journey.  Myriads  have  made  it.  It 
is  an  old  story.  I  might  perhaps  make  it  a  new 
story ;  but  I  crowd  on  now  to  the  proper  spot 
where  this  drama  is  to  be  enacted.  The  play 
halts  while  the  scenes  shift. 

One  figure  fills  up  to  my  mind  this  whole 
hiatus  of  the  many-leagued  skip.  I  see  Brent 
every  step  and  every  moment.  He  was  a  model 
comrade. 

Camp-life  tests  a  man  thoroughly.  Common 
toil,  hardship,  peril,  and  sternly  common  viaticum 
of  pork,  dough-cakes,  and  cofiee  sans  everything, 
are  a  daily  ordeal  of  good-nature.  It  is  not  hard 
for  two  men  to  be  civil  across  a  clean  white  table- 
cloth at  a  club.  If  they  feel  dull,  they  can  study 
the  carte ;  if  spiteful,  they  can  row  the  steward ; 
if  surly,  they  can  muddle  themselves  cheerful; 


M  JOHN  BRENT. 

if  they  bore  each  other,  finally  and  hopelessly 
they  can  exchange  cigars  and  part  for  all  time, 
and  still  be  friends,  not  foes.  But  the  illusions 
of  sham  good-fellowship  vanish  when  the  aaa-te 
du  jour  is  pore  frit  au  naturel,  damper  a  discre- 
tion, and  cafS  a  rien,  always  the  same  fare,  plain 
days  or  lucky  days,  served  on  a  blanket,  on  the 
ground. 

Brent  and  I  stood  the  test.  He  was  a  model 
comrade,  cavalier,  poet,  hunter,  naturahst,  cook. 
If  there  was  any  knowledge,  skill,  craft,  or  sleight 
of  hand  or  brain  wanted,  it  always  seemed  as 
if  his  whole  life  had  been  devoted  to  the  one 
etudy  to  gain  it.  He  would  spring  out  of  his 
6Unkets  after  a  night  under  the  stars,  improvise 
a  matin  song  to  Lucifer,  sketch  the  mornmg's 
view  into  cloudland  and  the  morning's  earthly 
horizon,  take  a  shot  at  a  gray  wolf,  book  a  new 
plant,  bag.  a  new  beetle,  and  then,  reclining  on 
the  lonely  prairie,  talk  our  breakfast,  whose 
Soyer  he  had  been,  so  full  of  Eden,  Sybaris,  the 
holocausts  of  Achilles,  the  triclinia  of  Lucullus, 
the  automaton  tables  of  the  QEil  de  Boeuf,  the 
cabinets  of  the  Preres  Proven^aux,  and  the 
dinners  of  civilization  where  the  wise  and  the 
witty  meet  to  shine  and  sparkle  for  the  beauti- 
ful, that  our  meagre  provender  suffered  "  change 
into  something  rich  and  strange  "  ;  the  flakes  of 
Med.  pork  became  peacocks'  tongues,  every  quoit 


ACROSS   COUNTRY.  56 

of  tough  toasted  dough  a  vol  au  vent,  and  the 
coffee  that  never  saw  milk  or  muscovado  a 
diviner  porridge  than  ever  was  sipped  on  the 
simny  summits  of  Olympus.  Such  a  magician 
is  priceless.  Every  object,  when  he  looked  at  it, 
seemed  to  revolve  about  and  exhibit  its  bright 
side.  Difficulty  skulked  away  from  him.  Dan- 
ger cowered  under  his  eye. 

Nothing  could  damp  his  entliusiasm.  Nothing 
could  drench  his  ardor.  No  drowning  his  en- 
ergy. He  never  growled,  never  sulked,  never 
snapped,  never  flinched.  Frosty  nights  on  the 
Sierra  tried  to  cramp  him ;  foggy  mornings  in 
the  valleys  did  their  worst  to  chill  him  ;  showers 
shrank  his  buckskins  and  soaked  the  macheers 
of  his  saddle  to  mere  pulp ;  rain  pelted  his  blan- 
kets in  the  bivouac  till  he  was  a  moist  island  in  a 
muddy  lake.  Bah,  elements  !  try  it  on  a  milk- 
sop !  not  on  John  Brent,  the  invulnerable.  He 
laughs  in  the  ugly  phiz  of  Trouble.  Hit  some- 
body else,  thou  grizzly  child  of  Erebus  ! 

Brent  was  closer  to  Nature  than  any  man  I 
ever  knew.  Not  after  the  manner  of  an  artist. 
The  artist. can  hardly  escape  a  certain  technical- 
ity. He  looks  at  the  world  through  the  spectacles 
of  his  style.  He  loves  mist  and  hates  sunshine, 
or  loves  brooks  and  shrinks  from  the  gloom  of  for- 
ests primeval,  or  adores  meadows  and  haystacks, 
and  dreads  the  far-sweeping  plain  and  the  sovran 


66  JOHN  BRENT. 

snow-peak.  Even  the  greatest  artist  runs  a  risk, 
which  only  the  greater  than  greatest  escape,  of 
suiting  Nature  to  themselves,  not  themselves  to 
Nature.  Brent  with  Nature  was  like  a  yoiith 
with  the  maiden  he  loves.  She  was  always  his 
love,  whatever  she  could  do  ;  however  dressed,  in 
clouds  or  sunshine,  unchanging  fair  ;  in  what- 
ever mood,  weeping  or  smiling,  at  her  sweetest ; 
grand,  beautiful  for  her  grandeur  ;  tender,  beauti- 
ful for  her  tenderness  ;  simple,  lovely  for  her 
simplicity ;  careless,  prettier  than  if  she  were 
trim  and  artful ;  rough,  potent,  and  impressive, 
a  barbaric  queen. 

It  is  not  a  charming  region,  that  breadth  of  the 
world  between  the  Foolonner  Mine  and  the  Great 
Salt  Lake.  Much  is  dusty  desert ;  much  is 
dreary  plain,  bushed  with  wild  sage,  the  wretch- 
edest  plant  that  grows ;  much  is  rugged  moun- 
tain. A  grim  and  desolate  waste.  But  large 
and  broad.  Unbroken  and  undisturbed,  in  its 
solemn  solitude,  by  prettiness.  No  thought  of 
cottage  life  there,  or  of  the  tame,  hmited,  sub- 
missive civilization  that  hangs  about  lattices  and 
trellises,  and  pets  its  chirping  pleasures,  keep- 
ing life  as  near  the  cradle  as  it  may.  It  is  a 
region  that  appeals  to  the  go  and  the  gallop, 
that  even  the  veriest  cockney,  who  never  saw 
beyond  a  vista  of  blocks,  cannot  eliminate  from 
his  being.     It   does  not  order  man  to  sink  into 


ACROSS    COUNTRY.  67 

a  ploughman.  Ploughmen  may  tarry  in  those 
dull,  boundless  plough-fields,  the  prairie  lands 
of  «u"c?-America.  These  desert  spaces,  ribbed 
with  barren  ridges,  stretch  for  the  Bedouin  tread 
of  those  who 

"  Love  all  waste 
And  solitary  places,  where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be." 

It  may  be  a  dreary  region  ;  but  the  great  white 
clouds  in  the  noons  of  that  splendid  Septem- 
ber, the  red  dawns  before  us,  the  red  twilights 
behind,  the  vague  mountain  lines  upon  the  far 
horizon,  the  sharp  crag  lines  near  at  hand,  the 
lambent  stars  that  lit  our  bivouacs,  the  moon 
that  paled  the  lambent  stars,  —  all  these  had 
their  glory,  intcnser  because  each  fact  came 
simple  and  alone,  and  challenged  study  and 
love  with  a  force  that  shames  the  spendthrift 
exuberance  of  fuller  landscapes. 

In  all  this  time  I  learned  to  love  the  man  John 
Brent,  as  I  had  loved  the  boy ;  but  as  mature 
man  loves  man.  I  have  known  no  more  perfect 
union  than  that  one  friendship.  Nothing  so 
tender  in  any  of  my  transitory  loves  for  women. 
We  were  two  who  thought  alike,  but  saw  differ- 
ently, and  never  quarrelled  because  the  shield 
was  to  him  gold  and  to  me  silver.  Such  a  friend- 
ship justifies   life.     All   bad  faith  is  worth  en- 

3* 


58  JOHN   BRENT. 

countering  for  the  sake  of  such  good  faith,  —  all 
cold  shoulder  for  such  warm  heart. 

And  so  I  bring  our  little  party  over  the  first 
half  of  its  journey. 

I  will  not  even  delay  to  describe  Utah,  not 
even  for  its  water-melons'  sake,  though  that  tri- 
color dainty  greatly  gladdened  our  dry  jaws,  as 
we  followed  the  valley  from  Box  Elder,  the 
northernmost  settlement,  to  the  City  of  the 
Great  Salt  Lake. 

In  a  few  days  of  repose  we  had  exhausted 
Mormon  civilization,  and,  horses  and  men  fresh 
and  in  brave  heart,  we  rode  out  of  the  modern 
Mecca,  one  glorious  day  of  early  October. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


JAKE   SHAMBERLAIN. 


If  Heaven's  climate  approaches  the  perfect 
charm  of  an  American  October,  I  accept  my 
place  in  advance,  and  book  my  lodgings  for 
eternity. 

The  climate  of  the  best  zone  in  America  is 
transcendent  for  its  purpose.  Its  purpose  is  to 
keep  men  at  their  keenest,  at  high  edge  and  high 
ardor  all  the  time.  Then,  for  enchanting  luxury 
of  repose,  when  ardent  summer  has  achieved  its 
harvest,  and  all  the  measure  of  the  year  is  full, 
comes  ripe  October,  with  its  golden,  slumberous 
air.  The  atmosphere  is  visible  sunshine.  Ev- 
ery leaf  in  the  forest  changes  to  a  resplendent 
blossom.  The  woods  are  rich  and  splendorous, 
but  not  glaring.  Nothing  breaks  the  tranquil 
wealthy  sentiment  of  the  time.  It  is  the  year's 
delightful  holiday. 

In  such  a  season  we  rode  through  the  bare 
defiles  of  the  Wasatch  Mountains,  wall  of  Utah 
on  the  east.  We  passed  Echo  Canon,  and  the 
other  strait  gates  and  rough  ways  tlu'ough  which 


60  JOHN   BRENT. 

the  Latter-Day  Saints  win  an  entrance  to  their 
Sion. 

We  met  them  in  throngs,  hard  at  work  at 
such  winning.  The  summer  emigration  of  Mor- 
mons was  beginning  to  come  in.  No  one  would 
have  admitted  their  claim  to  saintship  from  their 
appearance.  If  they  had  no  better  passport 
than  their  garb,  "  Avaunt !  Procul  este  profani  I  " 
would  have  cried  any  trustworthy  janitor  of 
Sion.  Saints,  if  I  know  them,  are  clean,  —  are 
not  ragged,  are  not  even  patched.  Their  gar- 
ments renew  themselves,  shed  rain  like  Macin- 
tosh, repel  dust,  sweeten  unsavoriness.  TJiese 
sham  saints  needed  unlimited  scouring,  persons 
and  raiment.  We  passed  them,  when  we  could, 
to  windward.  Poor  creatures  !  we  shall  see 
more  of  their  kindred  anon. 

We  hastened  on,  for  our  way  was  long,  and 
autumn's  hospitable  days  were  few.  Just  at  the 
foot  of  those  bare,  bulky  mounds  of  mountain  by 
which  the  Wasatch  range  tones  off  into  the  great 
plains  between  it  and  the  Rockys,  we  overtook 
the  Salt  Lake  mail  party  going  eastward.  They 
were  travelling  eight  or  ten  men  strong,  with  a 
four-mule  waggon,  and  several  horses  and  mules 
driven  beside  for  relays. 

"  If  Jake  Shamberlain  is  the  captain  of  the 
party,"  said  Brent,  when  we  cauglit  sight  of  them 
upon  the  open,  "  we  '11  join  tliem." 


•FAKE   SHAMBERLAIN.  61 

"  Who  is  Jake  Shamberlain  ?  " 
"  A  happy-go-lucky  fellow,  whom  I  have  met 
and  recognized  all  over  the  world.     He  has  been 
a  London  policeman.     He  was  pulling  stroke-oar 
in  the  captain's  gig  that  took  me  ashore  from  a 
dinner  on  board  the  Firefly,  British  steamer,  at 
the  Pirasus.     He  has  been  a  lay  brother  in  a  Car- 
thusian convent.     He  married  a  pretty  girl  in 
Boston  once,  went  off  on   a  mackerel  trip,  and 
when  he  came  back  the  pretty  girl  had  bigamized. 
That  made  Mormon  and  polygamist  of  him.     He 
came  out  two  or  three  years  ago,  and,  being  a 
thriving   fellow,  has   got   to   himself  lands  and 
beeves   and  wives   without   number.      Biddulpli 
and  I  stayed  several  days  with  him  when  we  came 
through  in  the  summer.     His  ranch  is  down  the 
valley,  toward  Provo.     He  owns  half  the  United 
States  mail  contract.     They  told  me  in  the  city 
that  he  intended  to  run  this  trip  himself.     You 
will  see  an  odd  compound  of  a  fellow." 

"  I  should  think  so  ;  policeman,  acolyte,  man- 
of-war's-man,  Yankee  husband.  Mormon  !  Has 
he  come  to  his  finahty  ?  " 

"  He  thuiks  so.  He  is  a  shrewd  fellow  of  many 
smatterings.  He  says  there  are  only  two  logical 
religions  in  the  civilized  world,  —  the  Popish  and 
the  Mormon.  Those  two  are  the  only  ones  that 
have  any  basis  in  authority.  His  convent  experi- 
ence disenchanted  him  with  Catholicism.     He  is 


62  JOHN   BRENT. 

quite  irreverent,  is  the  estimable  Jake.  He  says 
monks  are  a  set  of  snuffy  old  reprobates.  He 
says  that  he  found  celibacy  tended  to  all  manner 
of  low  vice  ;  that  monogamy  disappointed  him  ; 
so  he  tried  the  New  Revelation,  polygamy  and 
all,  and  has  become  an  ardent  propagandist 
and  exhorter.  Take  the  man  as  he  is,  and  he 
has  plenty  of  brave,  honest  qualities." 

We  had  by  this  time  ridden  up  to  the  mail 
party.  They  were  moving  slowly  along.  The 
night's  camping-spot  was  near.  It  was  a  bit  of 
grassy  level  on  the  bank  of  a  river,  galloping  over 
the  pebbles  with  its  mountain  impetus  still  in  it, 
—  Green  River,  perhaps  ;  Green,  or  White,  or 
Big  Sandy,  or  Little  Stony.  My  map  of  memory 
is  veined  with  so  many  such  streams,  all  going  in 
a  hurry  through  barren  plains,  and  no  more  than 
drains  on  a  water-shed,  that  I  confuse  their  un- 
distinguishing  names.  Such  mere  business-like 
water-courses  might  as  well  fce  numbered,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  monotonous  streets  of  a  city, 
too  new  for  the  consecration  of  history.  Dear 
New  England's  beloved  brooks  and  rivers,  slow 
through  the  meadows  and  beneath  the  elms, 
tumbling  and  cascading  down  the  mountain-sides 
from  under  the  darkling  hemlocks  into  the  spar- 
kle of  noon,  and  leaping  into  white  water  between 
the  files  of  Northern  birches,  —  they  have  their 
well-remembered  titles,  friendly  and  domestic,  or 


JAKE   SHAMBERLAIN.  63 

of  sturdy  syllables  and  wilderness  sound.  Such 
waters  have  spoiled  me  for  gutters,  —  Colorados, 
Arkansaws,  Plattes,  and  Missouris. 

"  Hillo,  Shamberlaiu  !  "  hailed  Brent,  riding 
up  to  the  train. 

"  Howdydo  ?  Howdydo  ?  No  swap  !  "  re- 
sponded Jake,  after  the  Indian  fashion.  "  Bung 
my  eyes !  ef  you  're  not  the  mate  of  all  mates 
I  'm  glad  to  see.  Pax  vobiscrum,  my  filly  !  You 
look  as  fresh  as  an  Aperel  shad.  Praised  be  the 
Lord  !  "  continued  he,  relapsing  into  Mormon 
slang,  "  who  has  sent  thee  again,  like  a  brand 
from  the  burning,  to  fall  into  paths  of  pleasant- 
ness with  the  Saints,  as  they  wander  from  the 
Promised  Land  to  the  mean  section  where  the 
low-hved  Gentiles  ripen  their  souls  for  hell." 

Droll  farrago  !  but  just  as  Jake  delivered  it. 
He  had  the  slang  and  the  swearing  of  all  climes 
and  countries  at  his  tongue's  end. 

"  Hello,  stranger !  "  said  he,  turning  to  me. 
"  I  allowed  you  was  the  Barrownight." 

"  It  's  my  friend,  Richard  Wade,"  said  Brent. 

"Yours  to  command.  Brother  Wade,"  Jake 
says  hospitably,  "  Ef  you  turn  out  prime,  one 
of  the  out  and  outers,  like  Brother  John  Brent, 
I  '11  tip  'em  the  wink  to  let  you  oif  easy  at  the 
Judgment  Day,  Gentile  or  not.  I  've  booked 
Brother  John  fur  Paradise ;  Brother  Joseph's 
got  a  white  robe  fur  him,  blow  high,  blow  low  !  " 


64  JOHN   BRENT. 

We  rode  along  beside  Sliambeiiain. 

"  What  did  you  mean  just  now  ?  "  asked  my 
friend.  "  You  spoke  of  Wade's  being  the  bar- 
onet." 

"  I  allowed  you  would  n't  leave  him  behind." 

"I  don't  understand.  I  have  not  seen  him 
since  we  left  you  in  the  summer.  I  've  been  on 
to  California  and  back." 

"  The  Barrownight  's  ben  stoppin'  round  in 
the  Valley  ever  since.  He  seems  to  have  a  call 
to  stop.  Prehaps  his  heart  is  tetched,  and  he  is 
goan  to  jiue  the  Lord's  people.  I  left  him  down 
to  my  ranch,  ten  days  ago,  playing  with  a  grizzly 
cub,  what  he  's  trying  to  make  a  gentleman  of. 
A  pooty  average  gentleman  it  '11  make  too." 

"  Very  odd  !  "  says  Brent  to  me.  "  Biddulph 
meant  to  start  for  home,  at  once,  when  we 
parted.  He  had  some  errand  in  l^ehalf  of  the 
lady  he  had  run  away  from." 

"  Probably  he  found  he  could  not  trust  his  old 
wounds  under  her  eyes  again.  Wants  another 
year's  crust  over  his  scarified  heart." 

"  Quite  likely.  Well,  I  wish  we  had  known 
he  was  in  the  Valley.  We  would  have  carried 
him  back  with  us.  A  fine  fellow  !  Could  n't  be 
a  better ! " 

"  Not  raw,  as  Englishmen  generally  are  ?  " 

"  No ;  well  ripened  by  a  year  or  so  in  Amer- 
ica." 


JAKE    SHA^IBERLAIN.  65 

"  Individuals  need  that  cookery,  as  the  race 
did." 

"  Yes ;  I  wish  our  social  cuisine  were  a  thought 
more  scientific." 

"  All  in  good  time.  We  shall  separate  sauces 
by  and  by,  and  not  compel  beef,  mutton,  and 
turkey  to  submit  to  the  same  gravy." 

"  Meanwhile  some  of  my  countrymen  are  so 
under-done,  and  some  so  over-done,  that  I  have 
lost  my  taste  for  them." 

"  Such  social  dyspepsia  is  soon  cured  on  the 
plains.  You  will  go  back  with  a  healthy  appe- 
tite. Did  your  English  friend  describe  the  lady 
of  his  love  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it  was  evidently  too  stern  a  grief  to  talk 
about.  He  could  keep  up  his  spirits  only  by 
resolutely  turning  his  back  on  the  subject." 

"  It  must  needs  have  been  a  weak  heart  or  a 
mighty  passion." 

"  The  latter.  A  brave  fellow  like  Biddulph  docs 
not  take  to  his  heels  from  what  he  can  overcome." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  camp. 

Horses  first,  self  afterwards,  is  the  law  of  the 
plains  travel.     A  camp  must  have,  — 

1.  Water. 

2.  Fodder. 

3.  Fuel. 

Those    are    the    necessities.     Anything    else    is 
luxury. 

B 


G6  JOHN  BRENT. 

The  mail  party  were  a  set  of  jolly  roughs. 
Jake  Shamberlain  was  the  type  man.  To  en- 
counter such  fellows  is  good  healthy  education. 
As  useful  in  kind,  but  higher  in  degree,  as  going 
to  a  bear  conversazione  or  a  lion  and  tiger  con- 
cert. Civilization  molUfies  the  race.  It  is  not 
well  to  have  hard  knocks  and  rough  usage  for 
mind  or  body  eliminated  from  our  training. 

We  joined  suppers  with  our  new  friends.  Af- 
ter supper  we  sat  smoking  our  pipes,  and  talking 
horse,  Indians,  bear-fights,  scalping,  and  other 
brutal  business,  such  as  the  world  has  not  out- 
g;rown. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

ENTEE,  THE  BRUTES  ! 

The'  sun  had  just  gone  down.  There  was  a 
red  wrangle  of  angry  vapors  over  the  mounds 
of  mountain  westward.  A  brace  of  travellers 
from  Salt  Lake  way  rode  up  and  lighted  their 
camp-fire  near  ours.  More  society  in  that  lonely 
world.  Two  famihes,  with  two  sets  of  Lares  and 
Penates. 

Not  attractive  society.  They  were  a  sinister- 
looking  couple  of  hounds.  A  lean  wolfish  and 
a  fat  bony  dog. 

One  was  a  rawboned,  strmgy  chap,  —  as  gaunt, 
unkempt,  and  cruel  a  Pike  as  ever  pillaged  the 
cabin,  insulted  the  wife,  and  squirted  tobacco  over 
the  dead  body  of  a  Free  State  settler  in  Kansas. 
The  other  was  worse,  because  craftier.  A  lit- 
tle man,  stockish,  oily,  and  red  in  the  face.  A 
jaunty  fellow,  too,  with  a  certain  shabby  air  of 
coxcombry  even  in  his  travel-stained  attire. 

They  were  well  mounted,  both.  The  long  ruf- 
fian rode  a  sorrel,  big  and  bony  as  himself,  and 
equally  above  such  accidents  as  food  or  no  food. 


68  JOHN  ?.ni:\!\ 

The  little  villain's  mount  was  a  red  roan,  a  Flat- 
head horse,  rather  naggy,  but  perfectly  hardy  and 
wiry,  —  an  animal  that  one  would  choose  to  do  a 
thousand  miles  in  twenty  days,  or  a  hundred  be- 
tween sunrise  and  sunset.  They  had  also  two 
capital  mules,  packed  very  light.  One  was  brand- 
ed, "  A.  &A." 

Distrust  and  disgust  are  infallible  instincts. 
Men's  hearts  and  lives  are  written  on  their  faces, 
to  warn  or  charm.  Never  reject  that  divine  or 
devilish  record ! 

Brent  read  the  strangers,  shivered  at  me,  and 
said,  sotto  voce,  "  What  a  precious  pair  of  cut- 
throats !  We  must  look  sharp  for  our  horses 
while  they  are  about." 

"  Yes,"  returned  I,  in  the  same  tone  ;  "  they 
look  to  me  like  Sacramento  gamblers,  who  have 
murdered  somebody,  and  had  to  make  tracks  for 
their  lives." 

"  The  Cassius  of  the  pair  is  bad  enough,"  said 
drent ;  "  but  that  oily  little  wretch  sickens  me. 
I  can  imagine  him  when  he  arrives  at  St.  Louis, 
blossomed  into  a  purple  coat  with  velvet  lappels, 
a  brocaded  waistcoat,  diamond  shirt-studs,  or  a 
flamboyant  scarf  pinned  with  a  pinchbeck  dog,  and 
red-legged  patent-leather  boots,  picking  his  teeth 
on  the  steps  of  the  Planters'  House.  Faugh !  I 
feel  as  if  a  snake  were  crawling  over  me,  when  1 
look  at  him." 


ENTER,   THE   BRUTES'.  69 

"  They  are  not  very  welcome  neighbors  to  our 
friends  here." 

"  No.  Roughs  abhor  brutes  as  much  as  you 
or  I  do.  Roughs  are  only  nature  ;  brutes  are 
sin.  I  do  not  like  this  brutal  element  coming  in. 
It  portends  misfortune.  You  and  I  will  inevita- 
bly come  into  collision  with  those  fellows." 

"  You  take  your  hostile  attitude  at  once,  and 
without  much  reluctance." 

"  You  know  something  of  my  experience.  I 
have  had  a  struggle  all  my  life  with  sin  in  one 
form  or  other,  with  brutality  in  one  form  or 
other.  I  have  been  lacerated  so  often  from 
unwillingness  to  strike  the  first  blow,  that  I  have 
at  last  been  forced  into  the  offensive." 

"  You  believe  in  flooring  Apollyon  before  he 
floors  you." 

"  There  must  be  somebody  to  do  the  merciless. 
It 's  not  my  business  —  the  melting  mood  —  in 
my  present  era." 

"  We  are  going  ofi"  into  generalities,  apropos 
of  those  two  brutes.  What,  0  volunteer  cham- 
pion of  virtue,  dost  thou  propose  in  regard  to 
them  ?  When  will  you  challenge  them  to  the 
ordeal,  to  prove  themselves  hoiiest  men  and  good 
fellows  ?  " 

"  Aggression  always  comes  from  evil.  They 
are  losels  ;  we  are  true  knights.  They  will  do 
some  sneaking  villany.  You  and  I  will  there- 
upon up  and  at  'em." 


70  JOHN  BRENT. 

"  Odd  fellow  are  you,  with  your  premonitions ! " 

"  They  are  very  vague,  of  course,  but  based  on 
a  magnetism  which  I  have  learnt  to  trust,  after 
much  discipline,  because  I  refused  to  obey  it. 
Look  at  that  big  brute,  how  he  kicks  and  curses 
his  mule ! " 

"  Perhaps  he  has  stolen  it,  and  is  revenging 
his  theft  on  its  object.  That  brand  '  A.  &  A.' 
may  remind  him  what  a  thief  he  is." 

"  Here  comes  the  fat  brother.  He  '11  propose 
to  camp  with  us." 

"  It  is  quite  natural  he  should,  saint  or  sinner, 
—  all  the  more  if  he  is  sinner.  It  must  be  terri- 
ble for  a  man  who  has  ugly  secrets  to  wake  up  at 
night,  alone  in  bivouac,  with  a  grisly  dream,  no 
human  being  near,  and  find  the  stars  watching 
him  keenly,  or  the  great  white,  solemn  moon  pity- 
ing him,  yet  saying,  with  her  inflexible  look,  that, 
moan  and  curse  as  he  may,  no  remorse  will  save 
him  from  despair." 

"  Yes,"  said  Brent,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe  ;  "  night  always  seems  to  judge  and  sen- 
tence the  day.  A  foul  man,  or  a  guilty  man,  so 
long  as  he  intends  to  remain  foul  and  guilty, 
dreads  pure,  quiet,  orderly  Nature." 

The  objectionable  stranger  came  up  to  our 
camp-fire. 

"  Hello,  men  !  "  said  he,  with  a  familiar  air, 
"  it  's  a  fine  night "  ;   and  meeting  with  no  re- 


ENTER,    THE   BRUTES!  71 

sponse,  he  continued :  "  But,  I  reckon,  you  don't 
allow  nothin'  else  but  fine  nights  in  this  section." 

"  Bad  company  makes  all  nights  bad,"  says 
Jake  Shamberlain,  gruffly  enough. 

"  Ay  ;  and  good  company  betters  the  orneriest 
sort  er  weather.     The  more  the  merrier,  eh  ?  " 

''  Supposin'  its  more  perarer  wolves,  or  more 
rattlesnakes,  or  more  horse-thieving,  scalpin 
Utes  !  "  says   Jake,  unpropitiated. 

"  0,"  said  the  new-comer  a  little  uneasilj, 
"  I  don't  mean  sech.  I  mean  jolly  dogs,  like  me 
and  my  pardener.  We  allowed  you  'd  choose 
company  in  camp.  We  'd  like  to  stick  our  pegs 
in  alongside  of  yourn,  ef  no  gent  haint  got 
nothin'  to  say  agin  it." 

"It  's  a  free  country,"  Jake  said,  "  and  looks 
pooty  roomy  round  here.  You  ken  camp  whar 
you  blame  please,  —  off  or  on." 

"  Well,"  says  the  fellow,  laying  hold  of  this 
very  slight  encouragement,  "  since  you  're  agree- 
able, we  '11  fry  our  pork  over  your  fire,  and  hev 
a  smoke  to  better  acquaintance." 

"  He  ain't  squimmidge,"  said  Jake  to  us,  as 
the  fellow  walked  off  to  call  his  comrade.  "  He  's 
bound  to  ring  himself  into  this  here  party,  who- 
ever says  stickleback.  He  's  one  er  them  Alge- 
rines  what  don't  know  a  dark  hint,  till  it  begins 
to  make  motions,  and  kicks  'em  out.  Well,  two 
more  men,  with    two    regiments'    allowance   of 


72  JOHN  BRENT. 

shootiii'  irons  won't  do  no  harm  in  this  Ingine 
country." 

"  Well,  boys  !  "  said  the  unpleasant  fatling,  ap- 
proaching again.  "  Here  is  my  pardener,  Sam 
Smith,  from  Sacramenter ;  what  he  don't  know 
about  a  horse  ain't  worth  knowin'.  My  name  is 
Jim  Robinson.  I  ken  sing  a  song,  tell  a  story, 
or  fling  a  card  with  any  man,  in  town  or  out  er 
town." 

While  the  strangers  cooked  their  supper,  my 
friend  and  I  lounged  off  apart  upon  the  prairie. 
A  few  steps  gave  us  a  capital  picture.  The  white 
wagon  ;  the  horses  feeding  in  the  distance,  a 
dusky  group ;  the  men  picturesquely  disposed 
about  the  fire,  now  glowing  ruddy  against  the 
thickening  night.  A  Gypsy  scene.  Literal  "Vie 
de  Boheme." 

"  I  am  never  bored,"  said  Brent  to  me,  "  with 
the  company  or  the  talk  of  men  like  those,  good 
or  bad.  Homo  sum;  nil  humani,  and  so  forth, 
—  a  sentiment  of  the  late  Plautus,  now  first 
quoted." 

"  You  do  not  yet  feel  a  reaction  toward  schol- 
arly society." 

"  No  ;  this  Homeric  life,  with  its  struggle 
against  elements,  which  I  can  deify  if  I  please, 
and  against  crude  forces  in  man  or  nature,  suits 
the  youth  of  my  manhood,  my  Achilles  time.  The 
world  went  through  an  epoch  of  just  such  life  as 


ENTER,   THE   BRUTES!  73 

we  are  leading.  Every  man  must,  to  be  com- 
plete and  not  conventional." 

"  A  man  who  wants  to  know  his  country  and 
his  age  must  clash  with  all  the  people  and  all 
the  kinds  of  life  in  it.  You  and  I  have  had  the 
college,  the  salon,  the  club,  the  street,  Europe, 
the  Old  World,  and  Yankeedom  through  and 
through  ;  when  do  you  expect  to  outgrow  Ish- 
mael,  my  Jonathan  ?  " 

"  Whenever  Destiny  gives  me  the  final  acco- 
lade of  merit,  and  names  me  Lover." 

"  What  !  have  you  never  been  that  happy 
wretch  ? " 

"  Never.  I  have  had  transitory  ideals.  I  have 
been  enchanted  by  women  willowy  and  women 
dumpy  ;  by  the  slight  and  colorless  mind  and 
body,  by  the  tender  and  couleur  de  rose,  and 
by  the  biixom  and  ruddy.  I  have  adored  Zo- 
beide  and  Hildegarde,  Dolores  and  Dorothy  Ann, 
imp  and  angel,  sprite  and  fiend.  I  have  had  my 
little  irritation  of  a  foolish  fancy,  my  sharp  scourge 
of  an  unworthy  passion.  I  am  heart-whole  still, 
and  growing  a  little  expectant  of  late." 

"  You  are  not  cruising  the  plains  for  a  lady- 
love !  It  is  not,  '  I  will  wed  a  savage  woman '  ? 
It  is  not  for  a  Pawnee  squaw  that  you  go  clad  in 
skins  and  disdain  the  barber  ?  " 

"  No.  My  business  in  Cosmos  is  not  to  be  tho 
father  of  half-breeds.     But  soberly,  old  fellow,  I 

4 


74  JOHN   BRENT. 

need  peace  after  a  life  driven  into  premature 
foemanship.  I  need  tranquillity  to  let  my  char- 
acter use  my  facts.  I  want  the  bitter  drawn  out 
of  me,  and  the  sweet  fostered.  I  yearn  to  be  a 
lover." 

As  he  said  this,  we  had  approached  the  camp- 
fire.  Jim  Robinson,  by  this  time  quite  at  home, 
was  making  his  accomplishments  of  use.  He  was 
debasing  his  audience  with  a  vulgar  song.  The 
words  and  air  jarred  upon  both  of  us. 

'■^Nil  humani  a  me  alienum  puto,  I  repeat," 
said  Brent,  "  but  that  foul  stuff  is  not  the  voice 
of  humanity.  Let 's  go  look  at  the  horses.  They 
do  not  belie  their  nobler  nature,  and  are  not  in 
the  line  of  degradation.  I  cannot  harden  myself 
not  to  shrink  from  the  brutal  element  wherever 
I  find  it ;  whether  in  two  horse-thieves  on  the 
plains,  or  in  a  well-dressed  reprobate  of  society 
at  the  club  in  New  York." 

"  Brutes  in  civilization  are  just  as  base,  but 
not  so  blatant." 

"  Old  Pumps  and  the  Don,  here,  are  a  gentler 
and  more  honorable  pair  than  these  strangers." 

"  They  are  the  gentlemen  of  their  race." 

"  It 's  not  their  cue  to  talk ;  but  if  the  gift  of 
tongues  should  come  to  them,  they  would  disdain 
all  unchivalric  and  discourteous  words.  They 
do  now,  with  those  brave  eyes  and  scornful  nos- 
trils, rebuke  whatever  is  unmanly  in  men." 


ENTER,   THE   BEUTES!  T5 

"  Yes ;  they  certainly  look  ready  to  co-operate 
in  all  knightly  duties." 

"  One  of  those,  as  I  hinted  before,  is  riding 
down  caitiffs." 

We  left  our  horses,  busy  at  their  suppers,  be- 
side the  brawling  river,  and  walked  back  to  camp. 
It  was  a  Caravaggio  scene  by  the  firelight.  Jim 
Robinson  had  produced  cards.  The  men  of  the 
mail  party  were  intent  over  the  game.  Even  Jake 
Shamberlain  had  easily  forgotten  his  distrust  of 
the  strangers.  The  two  suspects,  whether  with 
an  eye  to  future  games,  or  because  they  could 
not  offend  their  comrades  and  protectors  for  this 
dangerous  journey,  were  evidently  playing  fair. 
Robinson  would  sometimes  exhibit  a  winning 
hand,  and  say,  with  an  air  of  large  liberality, 
"  Ye  see,  boys,  I  ked  rake  down  yer  dimes,  ef  I 
chose ;  but  this  here  is  a  game  among  friends. 
I  'm  playin'  for  pastime.  I  've  made  my  pile 
olreddy,  and  so  's  my  pardener." 

The  gambler's  face  and  the  gambler's  manner 
are  the  same  all  over  the  world.  Always  the 
same  impassible  watchfulness.  Always  the  same 
bullying  cruelty  or  feline  cruelty.  Always  the 
same  lurking  triumph,  and  the  same  lurking 
sneer  at  the  victim.  The  same  quiet  satisfaction 
that  gamesters  will  be  geese,  and  gamblers  are 
deputed  to  pluck  them ;  the  same  suppressea 
chuckle  over  the  efforts  of  the  luckless  to  re- 


76  JOHN  BRENT. 

trieve  bad  luck ;  the  same  calm  confidence  that 
the  lucky  player  will  by  and  by  back  the  w.rong 
card,  the  wrong  color,  or  the  wrong  number,  and 
the  bank  will  take  back  its  losses.  What  hard 
faces  they  wear !  "Wear,  —  for  their  faces  seem 
masks  merely,  dropped  only  at  stealthy  moments. 
Always  the  same  look  and  the  same  manner. 
Young  and  beautiful  faces  curdle  into  it.  Wo- 
men's even.  I  have  seen  women,  the  slaves  of 
the  hells  their  devils  kept,  whose  faces  would 
have  been  fair  and  young,  if  this  ugly  mask 
could  but  be  torn  away.  AU  men  and  all  wo- 
men who  make  prey  of  their  fellows,  who  lie  in 
wait  to  seize  and  dismember  brothers  and  sisters, 
get  this  same  relentless  expression.  It  fixes  it- 
self deepest  on  a  gambler ;  he  must  hold  the  same 
countenance  from  the  first  lamp-lighting  until  in- 
dignant dawn  pales  the  sickly  light  of  lamps,  and 
the  first  morning  air  creeps  in  to  stir  the  heavy- 
hearted  atmosphere,  and  show  that  it  is  poison. 

"  I  've  seen  villains  just  like  those  two,"  said 
Brent,  "  in  every  hell  in  Europe  and  America. 
They  always  go  in  pairs  ;  a  tiger  and  a  snake  ;  a 
bully  and  a  wheedler. 

"  Mind  and  matter.  The  old  partnership,  like 
yours  and  mine." 

Next  morning  the  two  strangers  were  free  and 
accepted  members  of  the  party.  They  travelled 
on  with  us  without  question.     Smith  the  gaunt 


ENTER,   THE   BRUTES  1  77 

affected  a  rough  frankness  of  manner.  Robinson 
was  low  comedy.  His  head  was  packed  with 
scurvy  jokes  and  stories.  He  had  a  foul  leer 
on  his  face  whenever  he  was  thinking  his  own 
thoughts.  But  either,  if  suddenly  startled, 
showed  the  unmistakable  look  that  announces 
worse  crime  than  mere  knavery. 

They  tangled  their  names  so  that  we  perceived 
each  was  an  alias  hastily  assumed.  Smith  com- 
pared six-shooters  with  me.  I  detected  on  his  the 
name  Murker,  half  erased.  Once,  too,  Brent 
heard  Murker,  alias  Smith,  call  his  partner  Lar- 
rap. 

"  Larrap  is  appropriate,"  said  I,  when  Brent 
told  me  this ;  "  just  the  name  for  him,  as  that 
unlucky  mule  branded  '  A.  &  A.'  could  testify." 

"  The  long  ruffian  studied  my  face,  when  he 
made  that  slip,  to  see  if  I  had  heard.  He  might 
as  well  have  inspected  the  air  for  the  mark  of 
his  traitorous  syllables." 

"  You  claim  that  your  phiz  is  so  covered  with 
hieroglyphs,  inscriptions  of  fine  feeling,  that  there 
is  no  room  to  write  suspicions  of  other  men's 
villany  ?  " 

"  A  clean  heart  keeps  a  clean  face.  A  guilty 
heart  will  announce  itself  at  eyes  and  lips  and 
cheeks,  and  by  a  thousand  tremors  of  the  nerves. 
I  have  no  prejudices  against  the  family  Larrap. 
But  when  Larrap's   mate  spoke   the   name,   he 


78  JOHN  BRENT. 

looked  at  me  as  if  he  had  been  committing  a  mur- 
der, and  had  by  an  irresistible  impulse  proclaimed 
the  fact.  Look  at  him  now !  how  he  starts  and 
half  turns  whenever  one  of  our  horses  makes  a 
clatter.  He  dares  not  quite  look  back.  He 
knows  there  is  something  after  him." 

"  The  dread  of  a  vengeance,  you  think.  That 's 
a  blacker  follower  than  '  Atra  curapost  equitem.^  " 

I  tire  of  these  unwholesome  characters  I  am 
describing.  But  I  did  not  put  them  into  the 
story.  They  took  their  places  themselves.  I 
find  that  brutality  interferes  in  most  dramas  and 
most  lives.  Brutality  the  male  sin,  disloyalty  the 
female  sin,  —  these  two  are  always  doing  their 
best  to  baffle  and  blight  heroism  and  purity. 
Often  they  succeed.  Oftener  they  fail.  And  so 
the  world  exists,  and  is  not  annulled ;  its  history 
is  the  history  of  the  struggle  and  the  victory. 
This  episode  of  my  life  is  a  brief  of  the  world's 
complete  experience. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


A  MORMON  CARAVAN. 


Still,  as  we  rode  along,  the  same  rich,  tran- 
quil days  of  October ;  the  air  always  potable 
gold,  and  every  breath  nepenthe. 

Early  on  one  of  the  fairest  of  afternoons  when 
all  were  fairest,  we  reached  Fort  Bridger.  Bridger 
had  been  an  old  hunter,  trapper,  and  by  and  by 
that  forlorn  hope  of  civilization,  the  holder  of  an 
Indian  trading-post.  The  spot  is  better  known 
now.  It  was  there  that  that  miserable  bungle 
and  blunder  of  an  Administration  more  fool,  if 
that  be  possible,  than  knave,  —  the  Mormon  Expe- 
dition in  1858, — took  refuge,  after  its  disasters  on 
the  Sweetwater. 

At  the  moment  of  our  arrival,  Bridger's  Fort 
had  just  suffered  capture.  Its  owner  was  miss- 
ing. The  old  fellow  had  deemed  himself  the 
squatter  sovereign  of  that  bleak  and  sere  region. 
He  had  built  an  adobe  mud  fort,  with  a  palisade, 
on  a  sweep  of  plain  a  degree  less  desert  than  the 
deserts  hard  by.  That  oasis  was  his  oasis,  so  he 
fondly  hoped  ;  that  mud  fort,  his  mud  fort ;  those 


80  JOHN  BRENT. 

willows  and  alders,  his  thickets ;  and  that  trade, 
his  trade. 

But  Bridger  was  one  man,  and  he  had  power- 
ful neighbors.  It  was  a  case  of  "  O  si  angulus 
iste  /  "  —  a  Naboth's-vineyard  case.  The  Mor- 
mons did  not  love  the  rugged  mountaineer  ;  that 
worthy  Gentile,  in  turn,  thought  the  saints  no 
better  than  so  many  of  the  ungodly.  The  Mor- 
mons coveted  oasis,  fort,  thicket,  and  trade. 
They  accused  the  old  fellow  of  selling  powder 
and  ball  to  hostile  Indians,  —  to  Walker,  chief  of 
the  Utes,  a  scion,  no  doubt,  of  the  Hookey  Walker 
branch  of  that  family.  Very  likely  he  had  done 
so.  At  all  events,  it  was  a  good  pretext.  So,  in 
the  name  of  the  Prophet,  and  Brigham,  successor 
of  the  Prophet,  the  Latter-Day  Saints  had  made 
a  raid  upon  the  post.  Bridger  escaped  to  the 
mountains.  The  captors  occupied  the  Gentile's 
property,  and  spoiled  his  goods. 

Jake  Shamberlain  told  us  this  story,  not  with- 
out some  sympathy  for  the  exile. 

"  It 's  oUuz  so,"  says  Jake ;  "  Paul  plants,  and 
Apollyon  gets  the  increase.  Not  that  Bridger  's 
like  Paul,  any  more  'n  we  're  like  Apollyon  ;  but 
we  're  goan  to  have  all  the  cider  off  his  apple- 
trees." 

"  I  'm  sorry  old  Bridger  has  come  to  grief," 
said  Brent  to  me,  as  we  rode  over  the  plain  to- 
ward the  fort.     "  He  was  a  rough,  but  worth  all 


A   MORMON   CARAVAN.  81 

the  Latter-Day  Saints  this  side  of  Armageddon. 
Biddulph  and  I  stayed  a  week  with  him  last 
summer,  when  we  came  from  the  mountains 
about  Luggernel  Alley." 

"  How  far  is  Luggernel  Alley  from  this 
spot  ?  " 

"  Fifty  miles  or  so  to  the  south  and  east.  I 
almost  fancy  I  recognize  it  in  that  slight  notch  in 
the  line  of  the  blue  sierra  on  the  horizon.  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  it  again  !  If  it  were 
not  so  late,  I  should  insist  upon  taking  you  there 
now.  There  is  no  such  gorge  in  the  world.  And 
the  springs,  bold,  liberal  fountains,  gushing  out 
on  a  glittering  greensward !  There  are  several 
of  them,  some  boiling,  some  cold  as  ice  ;  and  one, 
the  Champagne  Spring,  wastes  in  the  wilderness 
the  most  delicate,  sparkling,  exhilarating  tipple 
that  ever  reddened  a  lip  or  freshened  a  brain." 

"  Wait  half  a  century  ;  then  you  and  I  will  go 
there  by  rail,  with  our  grandchildren,  for  draughts 
of  the  Fountain  of  Youth." 

"  I  should  like  to  spend  a  honeymoon  there,  if 
I  could  find  a  wife  plucky  enough  to  cross  the 
plains." 

How  well  I  remembered  all  this  conversation 
afterwards,  and  not  long  afterwards  ! 

We  rode  up  to  the  fort.  A  dozen  or  so  of 
somewhat  rubbishy  soldiers,  the  garrison,  were 
lounging  about. 

4*  V 


82  JOHN  BEENT. 

*'  Will  they  expect  a  countersign,"  asked  I,  — 
"  some  slogan  of  their  vulgarized  Islamism  ?  " 

"  Hardly  !  "  replied  Brent.  "  Only  one  man 
in  the  world  can  care  about  assailing  this  dismal 
den.  They  need  not  be  as  ceremonious  with 
strangers  as  the  Dutchmen  are  at  Ehrenbreitstein 
and  Verona." 

Jake  and  the  main  party  stopped  at  the  fort. 
"We  rode  on  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther,  and 
camped  near  a  stream,  where  the  grass  was  plen- 
teous. 

"  Fulano  and  Pumps  are  in  better  condition 
than  when  we  started,"  said  I,  while  we  were 
staking  them  out  for  a  long  feed.  "  The  mus- 
tangs have  had  all  the  drudgery ;  these  aristo- 
crats must  be  set  to  do  their  share  soon." 

"  They  are  in  prime  racing  order.  If  we  had 
had  them  in  training  for  three  months  for  a 
steeple-chase,  or  a  flight,  or  a  Sabine  adventure, 
or  a  rescue,  they  could  not  be  in  better  trim  than 
this  moment.  I  suppose  their  time  to  do  their 
duty  must  be  at  hand,  they  seem  so  ardent  for  it." 

We  left  our  little  caballada  nibbling  daintily  at 
the  sweetest  spires  of  self-cured  hay,  and  walked 
back  to  the  fort. 

We  stood  there  chatting  with  the  garrison. 
Tresently  Brent's  quick  eye  caught  some  white 
ppots  far  away  on  the  slope  of  the  prairie,  like 
Fails  on  the  edge  of  a  dreamy,  sunny  sea. 


A  MORJION  CARAVAN.  83 

"  Look  !  "  said  he,  "  there  comes  a  Salt  Lake 
emigration  train." 

"  Yes,"  said  a  Mormon  of  tlie  garrison,  "that 's 
Elder  Sizzum's  train.  Their  forerunner  came  in 
this  morning  to  choose  the  camping-spot.  There 
they  be  !  two  hundred  ox-teams,  a  thousand 
Saints,  bound  for  the  Promised  Land." 

He  walked  off  to  announce  the  arrival,  whis- 
tling, "  Jordan  is  a  hard  road  to  travel." 

I  knew  of  Sizzum  as  the  most  seductive  orator 
and  foreign  propagandist  of  Mormonism.  He 
had  been  in  England  some  time,  very  successful 
at  the  good  work.  The  caravans  we  had  already 
met  were  of  his  proselytes.  He  himself  was 
coming  on  with  the  last  train,  the  one  now  in 
view,  and  steering  for  Fort  Bridger. 

As  we  stood  watching,  the  lengthening  file 
of  white-hooded  wagons  crept  slowly  into  sight. 
They  came  forward  diagonally  to  our  line  of 
view,  travelling  apart  at  regular  intervals,  like 
the  vessels  of  a  well-ordered  convoy.  Now  the 
whole  fleet  dipped  into  a  long  hollow,  and  pres- 
ently the  leader  rose  slowly  up  over  the  ridge, 
and  then  slid  over  the  slope,  like  a  sail  winging 
down  the  broad  back  of  a  surge.  So  they  made 
their  way  along  over  the  rolling  sweep  of  the 
distance. 

"  Beautiful !  "  said  Brent.  "  See  how  the  white 
canvas  goldens  in  this  rich  October  haze.  Such 
scenes  are  the  poetry  of  prairie  life." 


84  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  I  am  too  sorry  for  the  crews,  to  enj(»y  the 
sunlit  sails." 

"  Yes,  the  safer  their  voyage,  the  surer  their 
wreck  in  that  gulf  of  superstition  beyond  the 
mountains." 

"  Perhaps  we  waste  sympathy.  A  man  who 
has  no  more  wit  than  to  believe  the  trash  they 
teach,  has  no  business  with  anything  but  stupid 
drudgery.  He  will  never  suffer  with  discover- 
ing his  faith  to  be  a  delusion." 

"  You  may  say  that  of  a  grown  man  ;  but 
think  of  the  children,  —  to  grow  up  in  desecrated 
homes,  and  never  know  the  close  and  tender 
influence  of  family  nurture." 

"  The  state  owes  them  an  interference  and  an 
education." 

"  So  it  does ;  and  the  women  protection  from 
polygamy,  whether  they  will  or  no." 

"  Certainly.  Polygamy  makes  woman  a  slave, 
either  by  force,  or  influence  stronger  than  force. 
The  state  exists  only  to  secure  the  blessings  of 
liberty  to  every  soul  within  its  borders,  and  so 
must  free  her." 

"  Good  logic,  but  not  likely,  quite  yet,  to  guide 
legislation  in  our  country." 

"  This  is  Sizzum's  last  train ;  if  the  women 
here  are  no  more  fascinating  than  their  shabby 
sisters  of  its  forerunners,  we  shall  carry  ouj 
hearts  safe  home." 


A   IIORAION   CARAVAN.  85 

"  I  cannot  laugh  about  that,"  said  Brent. 
"  My  old  dread  revives,  whenever  1  see  one  of 
these  caravans,  that  there  may  be  in  it  some 
innocent  girl  too  young  to  choose,  carried  off 
by  a  fanatic  father  or  guardian.  Tliink  of  the 
misery  to  a  woman  of  any  refinement ! " 

"  But  we  have  not  seen  any  such." 

Larrap  and  Murker  here  joined  us,  and,  over- 
hearing the  last  remarks,  began  to  speak  in  a 
very  disgusting  tone  of  the  women  we  had  seen 
in  previous  trains. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  hear  that  kind  of  stuff,"  said 
Brent,  turning  sternly  upon  Larrap. 

"  It  's  a  free  country,  and  I  shall  say  what  I 
blame  please,"  the  fellow  said,  with  a  grin. 

"  Then  say  it  by  yourself,  and  away  from  me." 

"  You  're  blame  squimmidge,"  said  Larrap, 
and  added  a  beastly  remark. 

Brent  caught  him  by  the  collar,  and  gave 
him  a  shake. 

Murker  put  his  hand  to  a  pistol  and  looked 
"  Murder,  if  I  dared !  " 

"  None  of  that,"  said  I,  stepping  before  him. 

Jake  Shamberlain,  seeing  the  quarrel,  came 
rurming  up.  "  Now,  Brother  Brent,"  said  Jake, 
"  no  shindies  in  this  here  Garden  of  Paradise. 
If  the  gent  has  made  a  remark  what  teches  you, 
apologies  is  in  order,  an  he  'U  make  all  far  and 
squar." 


86  JOHN   BRENT. 

Brent  gave  the  greasy  man  a  fling. 

He  went  down.  Then  he  got  up,  with  a 
trace  of  Bridger's  claim  on  his  red  shirt. 

"  Yer  need  n't  be  so  blame  hash  with  a  fel- 
ler," said  he.     "I  did  n't  mean  no  offence." 

"  Very  well.  Learn  to  talk  like  a  man,  and 
not  like  a  brute !  "  said  Brent. 

The  two  men  walked  off  together,  with  black 
looks. 

"  You  look  disappointed,  Shamberlain,"  said 
I.    "  Did  you  expect  a  battle  ?  " 

"  Ther  's  no  fight  in  them  fellers,"  said  Jake  ; 
"  but  ef  they  can  serve  you  a  mean  trick  they  '11 
do  it ;  and  they  're  ambushin'  now  to  look  in  the 
dixonary  and  see  what  it  is.  You  'd  better  keep 
the  lariats  of  that  black  and  that  gray  tied 
round  your  legs  to-night,  and  every  good  horse- 
thief  night  while  they  're  along.  They  may  be 
jolly  dogs,  and  let  their  chances  slide  at  cards, 
but  my  notion  is  they  're  layin'  low  for  bigger 
hauls." 

"  Good  advice,  Jake ;  and  so  we  will." 

By  this  time  the  head  wagons  of  Elder  Siz- 
zum's  train  had  crept  down  upon  the  level  near 
us.  For  the  length  of  a  long  mile  behind,  the 
serpentine  line  held  its  way.  On  the  yellow 
rim  of  the  world,  with  softened  outlines  against 
the  hazy  horizon,  the  rear  wagons  were  still 
climbing  up  into  view.     The  caravan  lay  like  a 


A  MOKMON   CARAVAN.  87 

slowly  writliing  hydra  over  the  land.  Along 
its  snaky  bends,  where  dragon-wings  should 
be,  were  herds  of  cattle,  plodding  beside  the 
"  trailing-footed  "  teams,  and  little  companies  of 
Saints  lounging  leisurely  toward  their  evening's 
goal,  their  unbuilt  hostelry  on  the  plain. 

Presently  the  hydra  became  a  two-headed  mon- 
ster. The  foremost  wagon  bent  to  the  right,  the 
second  led  off  to  the  left.  Each  successor,  as  it 
came  to  the  point  of  divergence,  filed  to  the  right 
or  left  alternately.  The  split  creature  expanded 
itself.  The  two  wings  moved  on  over  a  broad 
grassy  level  north  of  the  fort,  describing  in  reg- 
ular curve  a  great  ellipse,  a  third  of  a  mile  long, 
half  as  much  across. 

On  either  flank  the  march  was  timed  and  or- 
dered with  the  precision  of  practice.  This  same 
manoeuvre  had  been  repeated  every  day  of  the 
long  journey.  Precisely  as  the  foremost  teams 
met  at  the  upper  end  of  the  curve,  the  two  hind- 
most were  parting  at  the  lower.  The  ellipse  was 
complete.  It  locked  itself  top  and  bottom.  The 
train  came  to  a  halt.  Every  wagon  of  the  two 
hundred  stopped  close  upon  the  heels  of  its  file 
leader. 

A  tall  man,  half  pioneer,  half  deacon,  in  dress 
and  mien,  galloped  up  and  down  the  ring.  This 
was  Sizzum,  so  the  by-standers  informed  us.  At 
a  signal  from  him,  the  oxen,  two  and  three  yoke 


88  JOHN  BRENT. 

to  a  wagon,  were  unyoked,  herded,  and  driven 
oflf  to  wash  the  dust  from  then-  protestant  nostrils, 
and  graze  over  the  russet  prame.  They  huddled 
along,  a  great  army,  a  thousand  strong.  Their 
brown  flanks  grew  ruddy  with  the  low  sunshine. 
A  cloud  of  golden  dust  rose  and  hung  over  them. 
The  air  was  loud  with  their  lowing.  Relieved 
from  their  drags,  the  herd  frisked  away  with 
unwieldy  gambolling.  We  turned  to  the  camp, 
that  improvised  city  in  the  wilderness. 

Nothing  could  be  more  systematic  than  its  ar- 
rangement. Order  is  welcome  in  the  world. 
Order  is  only  second  to  beauty.  It  is,  indeed, 
the  skeleton  of  beauty.  Beauty  seeks  order,  and 
becomes  its  raiment.  Every  great  white-hooded, 
picturesque  wagon  of  the  Mormon  caravan  was 
in  its  place.  The  tongue  of  each  rested  on  the 
axle  of  its  forerunner,  or  was  ranged  upon  the 
grass  beneath.  The  ellipse  became  a  fort  and  a 
corral.  Within,  the  cattle  could  be  safely  herded. 
Marauding  Eedskins  would  gallop  about  in  vain. 
Nothing  stampedable  there.  Scalping  Eedskins, 
too,  would  be  bafiQed.  They  could  not  make  a 
dash  through  the  camp,  wliisk  off  a  scalp,  and 
vanish  untouched.  March  and  encampment  both 
had  been  marshalled  with  masterly  skill. 

"  Sizzum,"  Brent  avowed  to  me,  sotto  voce, 
"  may  be  a  blind  guide  with  ditchward  tenden- 
cies in  faith.     He  certainly  knows  how  to  handle 


A   MORMON   CARAVAN.  89 

his  heretics  in  the  field.  I  have  seen  old  tac- 
ticians, Marechales  and  Feldzeugmeisters,  in  Eu- 
rope, with  El  Dorado  on  each  shoulder,  and 
Golconda  on  the  left  breast,  who  would  have  tied 
up  that  train  into  knots  that  none  of  them  woui  j( 
be  Alexander  enough  to  cut." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

SIZZUM  AND  mS   HERETICS. 

No  sooner  had  this  nomad  town  settled  itself 
quietly  for  the  night,  than  a  town-meeting  col- 
lected in  the  open  of  the  amphitheatre. 

"  Now,  brethren,"  says  Shamberlain  to  us,  "  ef 
you  want  to  hear  exhortin'  as  runs  without  stop- 
pin',  step  up  and  listen  to  the  Apossle  of  the 
Gentiles.  Prehaps,"  and  here  Jake  winked  per- 
ceptibly, "  you  '11  be  teched,  and  want  to  jine, 
and  prehaps  you  wont.  Ef  you  're  docyle  you  '11 
be  teched,  ef  you  're  bulls  of  Bashan  you  wont 
be  teched." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  converted  your- 
self, Jake  ?  "  Brent  asked.  "  You  've  never  told 
me." 

"  Why,  you  see  I  was  naturally  of  a  religious 
nater,  and  I  've  tried  'em  all,  but  I  never  fell  foul 
of  a  religion  that  had  real  proved  miracles,  till 
I  seed  a  man,  born  dumb,  what  was  cured  by 
the  Prophet  Joseph  looking  down  his  throat  and 
tellin'  his  palate  to  speak  up,  —  and  it  did  speak 
up,  did  that  there  palate,  and  went  on  talkin'  most 


SIZZUM  AND   HIS  HERETICS.  93 

oncommon.  It's  onbeknown  tongues  it  talks, 
suthin  like  gibberidge  ;  but  Joseph  said  that  was 
how  the  tongues  sounded  in  the  Apossles'  time 
to  them  as  had  n't  got  the  interruption  of  tongues. 
I  struck  my  flag  to  that  there  miracle.  I  'd  seen 
'em  gettin'  up  the  sham  kind,  when  I  was  to  the 
Italian  convent,  and  I  knowed  the  fourth-proof 
article.  I  may  talk  rough  about  this  business, 
but  Brother  Brent  knows  I'm  honest  about  it." 

Jake  led  us  forward,  and  stationed  us  in  posts 
of  honor  before  the  crowd  of  auditors. 

Presently  Sizzum  appeared.  He  had  taken 
time  to  tone  down  the  pioneer  and  develop  the 
deacon  in  his  style,  and  a  very  sleek  personage 
he  had  made  of  himself.  He  was  clean  shaved; 
clean  shaving  is  a  favorite  coxcombry  of  the  dea- 
con class.  His  long  black  hair,  growing  rank 
from  a  muddy  skin,  was  sleekly  put  behind  his 
ears.  A  large  white  blossom  of  cravat  expanded 
under  his  nude,  beefy  chin,  and  he  wore  a  black 
dress-coat,  creased  with  its  recent  packing.  Ex- 
cept that  his  pantaloons  were  thrust  into  boots 
with  the  maker's  name  (Abel  Gushing,  Lynn, 
Mass.)  stamped  in  gold  on  a  scarlet  morocco 
shield  in  front,  he  was  in  correct  go-to-meetin' 
costume,  —  a  Chadband  of  the  plains. 

He  took  his  stand,  and  began  to  fulmine  over 
the  assemblage.  His  manner  was  coarse  and 
overbearing,  with   intervals   of  oily  persuasive- 


JOHN   BEENT. 

/as  a  big,  powerful  man,  without  one 

(elicacy  in  him,  —  a  fellow  who  never 

:e  a  flower  or  a  gentle  heart  into  his 

''without  crushing  it  by  a  brutal  instinct.    A 

Mature  with  such  an  amorphous  beak  of  a  nose, 
such  a  heavy-lipped  mouth,  and  such  wilderness 
of  jaw,  could  never  perceive  the  fine  savor  of 
any  delicate  thing.  Coarse  joys  were  the  only 
joys  for  such  a  body ;  coarse  emotions,  the  pleas- 
ures of  force  and  domination,  the  only  emotions 
crude  enough  for  such  a  soul. 

His  voice  was  as  repulsive  as  his  mien  and 
manner.  That  badly  modelled  nose  had  an  im- 
portant office  in  his  oratory.  Through  it  he 
hailed  his  auditors  to  open  their  hearts,  as  a 
canal-boatman  hails  the  locks  with  a  canal  horn 
of  bassoon  calibre.  But  sometimes,  when  he 
wished  to  be  seductive,  his  sentences  took  the 
channel  of  his  mouth,  and  his  great  lips  rolled 
the  words  over  like  fat  morsels.  Pah !  how  the 
recollection  of  the  fellow  disgusts  me  !  And  yet 
he  had  an  unwholesome  fascination,  which  com- 
pelled us  to  listen.  I  could  easily  understand 
how  he  might  overbear  feeble  minds,  and  whee- 
dle those  that  loved  flattery.  He  had  some  edu- 
cation. Travel  had  polished  his  base  metal,  so 
that  it  shone  well  enough  to  deceive  the  vulgar 
or  the  credulous.  He  did  not  often  allow  him- 
self the  broad  coarseness  of  his  brother  preachers 
in  the  church. 


SIZZUM   AND   HIS  HEEETICS.  93 

Shall  I  let  him  speak  for  himself  ?  Does  any 
one  wish  to  hear  the  inspirations  of  the  last  faith 
humanity  has  chosen  for  its  guide  ? 

No.  Such  travesty  of  true  religion  is  very 
sorry  comedy,  very  tragical  farce.  Vulgar  rant 
and  cant,  and  a  muddle  of  texts  and  dogmas,  are 
disgusting  to  hear,  and  would  be  weariness  to 
repeat. 

Sizzum's  sermon  suited  his  mixed  character. 
He  was  Aaron  and  Joshua,  high-priest  and  cap- 
tain combined.  He  made  his  discourse  bulletin 
for  to-day,  general  orders  for  to-morrow.  He 
warned  agamst  the  perils  of  disobedience.  He 
raved  of  the  joys  and  privileges  of  Latter-Day 
Saintship  on  earth  and  in  heaven.  He  heaped 
vindictive  and  truculent  anathemas  upon  Gen- 
tiles. He  gave  his  audience  to  understand  that 
he  held  the  keys  of  the  kingdom  ;  if  they  yielded 
to  him  without  question,  they  were  safe  in  life 
and  eternity ;  if  they  murmured,  they  were  cast 
into  outer  darkness.  It  was  terrible  to  see  the 
man's  despotism  over  his  proselytes.  A  rumble 
of  Amens  from  the  crowd  greeted  alike  every 
threat  and  every  promise. 

Sizzum's  discourse  lasted  half  an  hour.  He 
dismissed  his  audience  with  an  Amen,  and  an  in- 
junction to  keep  closer  to  the  train  on  the  march 
to-morrow,  and  not  be  "  rabbling  off  to  catch 
grasshoppers  because  they  were  bigger  and  hand- 
Bomer  than  the  Lancashire  kind." 


94  •  JOHN   BEENT. 

"  And  this  is  one  of  the  religions  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  such  a  man  is  its  spokes- 
man," said  Brent  to  me,  as  the  meeting  broke 
up,  and  we  strolled  off  alone  to  inspect  the  camp. 

"  It  is  a  shame  to  all  churches  that  they  have 
not  trained  men  to  judge  of  evidence,  and  so 
rendered  such  a  delusion  impossible." 

"  But  Christianity  tolerates,  and  ever  reveres, 
myths  and  mythic  histories ;  and  such  tolera- 
tion and  reverence  offer  premiums  on  the  in- 
vention of  new  mythologies  like  this." 

"  We,  in  our  churches,  teach  that  phenom- 
ena can  add  authority  to  truth ;  we  necessarily 
invite  miracle-mongers,  Joe  Smiths,  Pio  Nonos, 
to  produce  miracles  to  sustain  lies." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Brent,  "  that  superstition 
must  be  the  handmaid  of  religion,  except  in 
minds  very  holy,  or  very  brave  and  thorough 
in  study.  By  and  by,  when  mankind  is  edu- 
cated to  know  that  theology  is  a  science,  to  be 
investigated  and  tested  like  a  science,  Mormon- 
ism  and  every  like  juggle  will  become  forevei 
impossible." 

"  Certainly ;  false  religions  always  pretend  to 
a  supernatural  origin  and  a  fresh  batch  of  mys- 
teries. Let  Christianity  discard  its  mysteries, 
and  impostors  will  have  no  educated  credulity 
to  aid  them." 

So  Brent  and  I  commented  upon  the .  Sizzum 


SlZZUil  AND  HIS   HERETICS.  95 

heresy  and  its  mouthpiece.  We  abhorred  the 
system,  and  were  disgusted  with  its  apostle,  as 
a  tempter  and  a  knave.  Yet  we  could  not  feel 
any  close  personal  interest  in  the  class  he  de- 
luded. They  seemed  too  ignorant  and  doltish 
to  need  purer  spiritual  food. 

Bodily  food  had  been  prepared  by  the  women 
while  the  men  listened  to  Sizzum's  grace  before 
meat.  A  fragrance  of  baking  bread  had  per- 
vaded the  air.  A  thousand  slices  of  fat  pork 
sizzled  in  two  hundred  frying-pans,  and  water 
boiled  for  two  hundred  coffee  or  tea  pots.  Saints 
cannot  solely  live  on  sermons. 

Brent  and  I  walked  about  to  survey  the  camp. 
We  stopped  wherever  we  found  the  emigrants 
sociable,  and  chatted  with  them.  They  were 
all  eager  to  know  how  much  length  of  journey 
remained. 

"  We  're  comin'  to  believe,  some  of  us,"  said 
an  old  crone,  with  a  wrinkle  for  every  grumble 
of  her  life,  "  that  we  're  to  be  forty  year  in  the 
wilderness,  like  the  old  IzzeruUites.  I  would  n't 
have  come,  Samwell,  if  I  'd  known  what  you  was 
bringin'  me  to." 

"  There  's  a  many  of  us  would  n't  have  come, 
mother,"  rejoined  "  Samwell,"  a  cowed  man  of 
anxious  look,  "  if  we  'd  known  as  much  as  we 
do  now." 

Samwell  glanced  sadly  at  his  dirty,  travel-worn 


96  JOHN   BEENT. 

children,  at  work  at  mud  pies  and  dust  vol-au- 
vents.  His  dowdy  wife  broke  off  the  colloquy 
by^  -announcing,  in  a  tone  that  she  must  have 
learned  from  a  rattlesnake,  that  the  loaf  was 
baked,  the  bacon  was  fried,  and  supper  should  n't 
wait  for  anybody's  talking. 

All  the  emigrants  were  English.  Lancashire 
their  accent  and  dialect  announced,  and  Lan- 
cashire they  told  us  was  their  home  in  the  old 
step-mother  country. 

Step-mother,  indeed,  to  these  her  children ! 
No  wonder  that  they  had  found  life  at  home  in- 
tolerable !  They  were  the  poorest  class  of  towns- 
people from  the  great  manufacturing  towns, — 
penny  tradesmen,  indoor  craftsmen,  factory  oper- 
atives,—  a  puny,  withered  set  of  beings;  hardly 
men,  if  man  means  strength ;  hardly  women, 
if  woman  means  beauty.  Their  faces  told  of 
long  years  passed  in  the  foul  air  of  close  shops, 
or  work-rooms,  or  steamy,  oily,  flocculent  mills. 
All  work  and  no  play  had  been  their  history. 
No  holidays,  no  green  grass,  no  flowers,  no  fresh- 
ness,—  nothing  but  hard,  ill-paid  drudgery,  with 
starvation  standing  over  the  task  and  scourging 
them  on.  There  were  children  among  them  al- 
ready aged  and  wrinkled,  ancient  as  the  crone, 
Samwell's  mother,  for  any  childish  gayety  they 
showed.  Poor  things !  they  had  been  for  years 
their  twelve,  fourteen,  sixteen  hours  at  work  in 


SIZZUM   AND   mS   HERETICS.  97 

stifling  mills,  when  they  should  have  been  tum- 
bling in  the  hay,  chasing  butterflies,  expanding 
to  sunshine  and  open  air. 

"  We  have  not  seen,"  said  Brent,  "  one  hearty 
John  Bull,  or  buxom  Betsy  Bull,  in  the  whole 
caravan." 

"  They  look  as  if  husks  and  slops  had  been 
their  meat  and  drink,  instead  of  beef  and  beer." 

"  Beef  and  beer  belong  to  fellows  that  have 
red  in  their  cheeks  and  guffaws  in  their  throats, 
not  to  these  lean,  pale,  dreary  wretches." 

"  The  saints'  robes  seem  as  sorry  as  their  per- 
sons," said  I.  "  No  watchman  on  the  hill-tops  of 
their  Sion  will  hail,  '  Who  are  these  in  bright 
array  ?  '  when  they  heave  in  sight !  " 

"  They  have  a  right  to  be  way-worn,  after  their 
summer  of  plodding  over  these  dusty  wastes." 

"  Here  comes  a  group  in  gayer  trim.  See ! 
—  actually  flounces  and  parasols  !  " 

Several  young  women  of  the  Blowsalind  order, 
dressed  in  very  incongruous  toggery  of  stained 
and  faded  silks,  passed  us.  They  seemed  to  be 
on  a  round  of  evening  visits,  and  sheltered  their 
tanned  faces  against  the  October  sunshine  with 
ancient  fringed  parasols.  Their  costume  had  a 
queer  effect  in  the  camp  of  a  Mormon  caravan  at 
Fort  Bridger.  They  were  in  good  spirits,  and 
went  into  little  panics  when  they  saw  Brent  in 
his  Indian  rig,  and  then  into  "  Lor  me  ! "  and 

5  O 


98  JOHN   BRE.^T. 

"  Bless  us  !  "  when  the  supposed  Pawnee  was  dis* 
covered  to  be  a  handsome  pale-face. 

"Perhaps  we  waste  sympathy,"  said  Brent, 
"  on  these  people.  Why  are  not  they  better  off 
here,  and  likely  to  bo  more  comfortable  in  Utah 
than  in  the  slums  of  Manchester  ?  " 

"  Drudgery  for  drudgery,  slavery  for  slavery, 
barren  as  the  Salt  Lake  country  is,  and  rough 
the  lot  of  pioneers,  I  have  no  doubt  they  will  be. 
But  then  the  religion  !  " 

"  I  do  not  defend  that ;  but  what  has  England's 
done  for  them  to  make  them  regret  it  ?  Of  what 
use  to  these  poor  proletaires  have  the  cathedrals 
been,  or  the  sweet  country  churches,  or  the  quiet 
cloisters  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  ?  I  cannot 
wonder  that  they  have  given  an  easy  belief  to 
Mormonism,  —  an  energetic,  unscrupulous  prop- 
agandism,  offering  escape  from  poverty  and  social 
depression,  offering  acres  for  the  mere  trouble 
of  occupying  ;  promising  high  thrones  in  heaven, 
and  on  earth  also,  if  the  saints  will  only  gather, 
march  back,  and  take  possession  of  thek  old  es- 
tates in  Illinois  and  Missouri." 

We  had  by  this  time  approached  the  upper 
end  of  the  ellipse.  Sizzum,  as  quartermaster, 
had  done  his  duty  well.  The  great  blue  land- 
arks,  each  roofed  with  its  hood  of  white  canvas 
stretched  on  hoops,  were  in  stout,  serviceable  or- 
der, wheels,  axles,  and  bodies. 


SIZZUM   AND   fflS   HEREIICS.  99 

Within  these  nomad  cottages  order  or  chaos 
reigned,  according  to  the  tenants.  Some  people 
seem  only  to  know  the  value  of  rubbish.  They 
guard  old  shoes,  old  hats,  cracked  mugs,  battered 
tins,  as  articles  of  virtu.  Some  of  the  wagons 
were  crowded  with  such  cherished  trash.  Some 
had  been  lightened  of  such  burdens  by  the  way- 
side, and  so  were  snug  and  orderly  nestling- 
places  ;  but  the  rat's-nests  quite  outnumbered 
the  wren's-nests. 

A  small,  neat  wagon  stood  near  the  head  of 
the  train.  We  might  have  merely  glanced  at  it, 
and  passed  by,  as  we  had  done  els^-where  along 
the  line  ;  but,  as  we  approached,  our  attention 
was  caught  by  Murker  and  Larrap.  They  were 
nosing  about,  prying  into  the  wagon,  from  a  lit- 
tle distance.  When  they  caught  sight  of  us,  they 
turned  and  skulked  away. 

"  What  are  those  vermin  about  ?  "  said  Brent. 

"  Selecting,  perhaps,  a  Mormoness  to  kidnap 
to-night,  or  planning  a  burglary." 

"  I  hate  to  loathe  any  one  as  I  loathe  those 
fellows.  I  have  known  brutes  enough  in  my 
life  to  have  become  hardened  or  indifferent  hy 
this  time,  but  these  freshen  my  disgust  every 
time  I  see  them." 

"  I  thought  we  had  come  to  a  crisis  with  them 
this  afternoon,  when  you  collared  Larrap." 

*'  You  remember  my  presentiments  about  them 


100  JOHN   BEENT. 

the  night  they  joined  us,  I  am  afraid  they  will 
yet  serve  us  a  shabby  trick.  Their  '  dixonary,' 
as  Shamberlain  called  it,  of  rascality  is  an  una- 
bridged edition." 

"  Such  carrion  creatures  should  not  be  allowed 
about  such  a  pretty  cage." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  pretty  cage.  Some  neater- 
handed  Phyllis  than  we  have  seen  has  had  the 
arranging  of  the  household  gear  within." 

"  Yes  ;  the  mistress  of  this  rolling  mansion  has 
not  lost  her  domestic  ambition.  This  is  quite 
the  model  wagon  of  the  train.  Refinement  does 
not  disdain  Sizzum's  pilgrims ;  as  ecce  signum 
here!" 

"The  pretty  cage  has  its  bird,  —  pretty  too, 
perhaps.  See !  there  is  some  one  behind  that 
shawl  screen  at  the  back  of  the  wagon." 

"  The  bird  has  divined  Murker  and  Larrap, 
and  is  hiding,  probably." 

"  Come ;  we  have  stared  long  enough ;  let  us 
walk  on." 


CHAPTER    X. 


"ELLEN!  ELLEN!" 


We  were  turning  away  from  the  pretty  cage, 
in  order  not  to  frighten  the  bird,  pretty  or  not, 
when  an  oldish  man,  tending  his  fire  at  the  far- 
tlier  side  of  tlie  wagon,  gave  us  "  Good  evening! " 

There  is  a  small  but  ancient  fraternity  in  the 
world,  known  as  the  Order  of  Gentlemen.  It  is 
a  grand  old  order.  A  poet  has  said  that  Christ 
founded  it ;  that  he  was  "  the  first  true  gentle- 
man that  ever  lived." 

I  cannot  but  distinguish  some  personages  of 
far-off  antiquity  as  worthy  members  of  this  fel- 
lowship. I  believe  it  coeval  with  man.  But 
Christ  stated  the  precept  of  the  order,  when  he 
gave  the  whole  moral  law  in  two  clauses,  — 
Love  to  God,  and  Love  to  the  neighbor.  Who- 
ever has  this  precept  so  by  heart  that  it  shines 
through  into  his  life,  enters  without  question 
into  the  inner  circles  of  the  order. 

But  to  protect  itself  against  pretenders,  this 
brotherhood,  like  any  other,  has  its  formulas, 
its  passwords,  its  shibboleths,  even  its  uniform. 


102  JOHN   BRENT. 

These  are  external  symbols.  With  some,  the 
symbol  is  greater  than  the  thing  signified.  The 
thing  signified,  the  principle,  is  so  beautiful,  that 
the  outward  sign  is  enough  to  glorify  any  char- 
acter. The  demeanor  of  a  gentleman  —  being 
art,  the  expression  of  an  idea  in  form  —  can  be- 
come property,  like  any  art.  It  may  be  an  heir- 
loom in  an  ancient  house,  like  the  portrait  of  the 
hero  who  gave  a  family  name  and  fame,  like  the 
portrait  of  the  maiden  martyr  or  the  faithful  wife 
who  made  that  name  beloved,  that  fame  poetry, 
to  all  ages.  This  precious  inheritance,  like  any- 
thing fine  and  tender,  has  sometimes  been  treated 
with  over  care.  Guardians  have  been  so  solici- 
tous that  a  neophyte  should  not  lose  his  inherit- 
ed rank  in  the  order  of  gentlemen,  that  they  have 
forgotten  to  make  a  man  of  him.  Culturing 
the  flower,  they  have  not  thought  to  make  the 
stalk  sturdy,  or  even  healthy.  The  demeanor 
of  a  gentleman  may  be  possessed  by  a  weakling, 
or  even  inherited  by  one  whose  heart  is  not  wor- 
thy of  his  manners. 

The  formulas  of  this  order  are  not  edited ;  its 
passwords  are  not  syllabled ;  its  uniform  was  never 
pictured  in  a  fashion-plate,  or  so  described  that  a 
snob  could  go  to  his  tailor,  and  say,  "  Make  me 
the.  habit  of  a  gentleman."  But  the  brothers 
ki><>w  each  other  unerringly  wherever  they  meet ; 
tp  ^hey  of  the  inner  shrine,  gentlemen  heart  and 


"ELLEN!    ELLEN!"  103 

life ;  be  they  of  the  outer  court,  gentlemeu  in 
feehug  and  demeanor. 

No  disguise  delays  this  recognition.  No  strange- 
ness of  place  and  circumstances  prevents  it.  The 
men  meet.  The  magnetism  passes  between  them. 
All  is  said  without  words.  Gentleman  knows  gen- 
tleman by  what  we  name  instinct.  But  observe 
that  this  thing,  instinct,  is  character  in  its  finest, 
keenest,  largest,  and  most  concentrated  action. 
It  is  the  spirit's  touch. 

John  Brent  and  I,  not  to  be  deemed  intruders, 
were  walking  away  from  the  neat  wagon  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  Mormon  camp,  when  an  oldish 
man  beside  the  wagon  gave  us  "  Good  evening." 
"  Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  said  the  wan, 
gray-haired,  shadowy  man  before  us. 

And  that  was  all.  It  was  enough.  We  knew 
each  other  ;  we  him  and  he  us.  Men  of  the  same 
order,  and  so  brothers  and  friends. 

Here  was  improbability  that  made  interest  at 
once.  Greater  to  us  than  to  him.  We  were  not 
out  of  place.  He  was,  and  in  the  wrong  company. 
Brent  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  We  had 
half  divined  our  new  brother's  character  at  the 
first  glance. 

How  legible  are  some  men  !  All,  indeed,  that 
have  had,  or  are  to  have,  a  history,  are  books  in 
a  well-known  tongue  to  trained  decipherers.  But 
some  trao-edies  stare  at  us  with  such  an  earnest 


104  JOHN  BEENT. 

dreariness  from  helpless  faces,  that  we  road  with 
one  look.  We  turn  away  sadly.  We  have  com- 
prehended the  whole  history  of  past  sorrow ;  we 
prophesy  the  coming  despair. 

I  will  not  now  anticipate  the  unfinished,  mel- 
ancholy story  we  read  in  this  new  face.  An 
Englishman,  an  unmistakable  gentleman,  and  in 
a  Mormon  camp,  —  there  was  tragedy  enough. 
Enough  to  whisper  us  both  to  depart,  and  not 
grieve  ourselves  with  vain  pity  ;  enough  to  im- 
peratively command  us  to  stay  and  see  whether 
we,  as  true  knights,  foes  of  wrong,  succorers  of 
feebleness,  had  any  business  here.  The  same 
instinct  that  revealed  to  us  one  of  our  order 
where  he  ought  not  to  be,  warned  us  that  he 
might  have  claims  on  us,  and  we  duties  toward 
him. 

We  returned  his  salutation. 

We  were  about  to  continue  the  conversation, 
when  he  opened  a  fresh  page  of  the  tragedy.  He 
called,  in  a  voice  too  sad  to  be  querulous,  —  a 
flickering  voice,  never  to  be  fed  vigorous  again 
by  any  lusty  hope,  — 

"Ellen!  Ellen!" 

"  What,  father  dear  ?  " 

"  The  water  boils.  Please  bring  the  tea,  my 
child." 

"Yes,  father  dear." 

The   answers   came   from  within   the   wagon. 


"ELLEN!    ELLEN!"  105 

rhey  "were  the  song  of  the  bird  whose  nest  we 
had  approved.  A  sad  song.  A  woman's  voice 
can  tell  a  long  history  of  sorrow  in  a  single  word. 
This  wonderful  instrument,  our  voice,  alters  its 
timbre  with  every  note  it  yields,  as  the  face 
changes  with  every  look,  until  at  last  the  domi- 
nant emotion  is  master,  and  gives  quality  to  tone 
and  character  to  expression. 

It  was  a  sad,  sweet  voice  that  answered  the  old 
gentleman's  call.  A  lady's  voice,  —  the  voice  of 
a  high-bred  woman,  delicate,  distinct,  self-pos- 
sessed. That  sound  itself  was  tragedy  in  such 
a  spot.  No  transitory  disappointment  or  distress 
ever  imprinted  its  mark  so  deeply  upon  a  heart's 
utterance.  The  sadness  here  had  been  life-long, 
had  begun  long  ago,  in  the  days  when  childhood 
should  have  gone  thoughtless,  or,  if  it  noted  the 
worth  of  its  moments,  should  have  known  them 
as  jubilee  every  one  ;  —  a  sadness  so  habitual  that 
it  had  become  the  permanent  atmosphere  of  the 
life.  The  voice  announced  the  person,  and  com- 
manded all  the  tenderest  sympathy  brother-man 
can  give  to  any  sorrowful  one  in  the  sisterhood 
of  woman. 

And  yet  this  voice,  that  with  so  subtle  a  revela- 
tion gave  us  the  key  of  the  unseen  lady's  history, 
asked  for  no  pity.  There  was  no  moan  in  it,  and 
no  plaint.  Not  even  a  murmur,  nor  any  rebel 
bitterness  or  sourness  for  defeat.    The  undertone 

5* 


^OG  JOHN  BREHT. 

was  brave.  K  not  hopeful,  still  resolute.  No 
despair  could  come  within  sound  of  that  sweet 
music  of  defiance.  The  tones  that  challenge 
Fate  were  subdued  away ;  but  not  the  tones  that 
calmly  answer,  "  No  surrender,"  to  Fate's  un- 
timely paean.  It  was  a  happy  thing  to  know 
that,  sorrowful  as  the  life  might  be,  here  was  an 
impregnable  soul. 

There  was  a  manner  of  half  command  and 
half  dependence  in  the  father's  call  to  his  daugh- 
ter, —  a  weak  nature,  still  asserting  the  control 
it  could  not  sustain  over  a  stronger.  And  in  her 
response  an  indulgence  of  this  feeble  attempt  at 
authority. 

Does  all  this  seem  much  to  find  in  the  few  sim- 
ple words  we  had  heard  ?  The  analysis  might 
be  made  infinitely  more  thorough.  Evetylook, 
tone,  gesture  of  a  man  is  a  symbol  of  his  com- 
plete nature.  If  we  apply  the  microscope  se- 
verely enough,  we  can  discern  the  fine  organism 
by  which  the  soul  sends  itself  out  in  every  act 
of  the  being.  And  the  more  perfectly  developed 
the  creature,  the  more  significant,  and  yet  the 
more  mysterious,  is  every  habit,  and  every  mo- 
tion mightier  than  habit,  of  body  or  soul. 

In  an  instant,  the  lady  so  sweetly  heralded 
stepped  from  beneath  the  hood  of  the  wagon,  and 
sprang  to  the  ground  in  more  busy  and  cheerful 
guise  than  her  voice  had  promised. 


"ELLEN!    ELLEN!"  107 

Again  the  same  subtle  magnetism  between  lier 
and  us.  We  could  not  have  been  more  convinced 
of  her  right  to  absolute  respect  and  consideration 
if  she  had  entered  to  us  in  the  dusky  light  of  a 
rich  drawing-room,  or  if  we  had  been  presented 
in  due  form  at  a  picnic  of  the  grandest  world, 
with  far  other  scenery  than  this  of  a  "  desart 
idle,"  tenanted  for  the  moment  by  a  Mormon 
caravan.  The  lady,  like  her  father,  felt  that  wo 
were  gentlemen,  and  therefore  would  compre- 
hend her.  She  saluted  us  quietly.  There  was 
in  her  manner  a  tacit  and  involuntary  protest 
against  circumstances,  just  enough  for  dignity. 
A  vulgar  woman  would  have  snatched  up  and 
put  on  clumsily  a  have-seen-better-days  air. 
This  lady  knew  herself,  and  knew  that  she  could 
not  be  mistaken  for  other  than  she  was.  Her 
base  background  only  made  her  nobility  more 
salient. 

She  did  not  need  any  such  background,  nor 
the  contrast  of  the  drudges  and  meretricious 
frights  of  the  caravan.  She  could  have  borne 
fall  light  without  any  shade.  A  woman  fit  to 
stand  peer  among  the  peerless. 

We  could  not  be  astonished  at  this  apparition. 
We  had  divined  her  father  rightly,  as  it  after- 
ward proved.  Her  voice  has  already  half  dis- 
closed her  character.  Let  her  face  continue  the 
development.     We  had  already  heard  her  called 


108  JOIIN   BRENT. 

by  her  Christian  name,  Ellen.  That  seemed  to 
bring  us,  from  the  beginning,  into  a  certain  inti- 
macy with  the  woman  as  woman,  sister,  daugh- 
ter, and  to  subordinate  the  circumstances  of  the 
life,  to  be  in  future  suggested  by  the  social  name, 
to  the  life  itself. 

Ellen,  then,  the  unknown  lady  of  the  Mormon 
caravan,  was  a  high-bred  beauty.  Englishwomen 
generally  lack  the  fine  edge  of  such  beauty  as 
hers.  She  owed  her  dark  fairness,  perhaps,  to 
a  Sicilian  bride,  whom  her  Norman  ancestor  had 
pirated  away  from  some  old  playground  of  Pros- 
erpine, and  brought  with  him  to  England  when 
he  came  there  as  conqueror.  Her  nose  was  not 
quite  aquiline. 

Positive  aquiline  noses  should  be  cut  off.  They 
are  ugly ;  they  are  immoral ;  they  are  sensual ; 
they  love  money ;  they  enjoy  others'  misery. 
The  worst  birds  have  hooked  beaks  ;  and  so  the 
worst  men,  the  eagles  and  vultures  of  the  race. 
Cut  off  the  beaks ;  they  betoken  a  cruel  pounce, 
a  greedy  clutch,  and  a  propensity  to  carrion. 
Save  the  exceptions,  but  extirpate  the  brood. 

This  lady's  nose  was  sensitive  and  proud.  It 
is  well  when  a  face  has  its  share  of  pride  in  the 
nose.  Then  the  lips  can  give  themselves  solely 
to  sweetness  and  archness.  Besides,  pride,  or,  if 
the  word  is  dreaded,  a  conscious  and  resolute 
personality,  should  be  the  characteristic  of  a  face. 


"ELLEN!    ELLEN!"  109 

The  nose  should  express  this  quality.  Above,  the 
eyes  may  changefuUy  flash  intelligence ;  below, 
the  mouth  may  smile  affection ;  the  cheeks  may 
give  balance  and  equability ;  the  chin  may  show 
the  cloven  dimple  of  a  tender  and  many-sided,  or 
the  point  of  a  single-hearted  and  concentrated 
nature ;  the  brow,  a  non-committal  feature,  may 
look  wise  or  wiseacre ;  but  every  one  of  them  is 
only  tributary  to  the  nose,  standing  royally  m  the 
midst,  and  with  dignity  presiding  over  its  way- 
waird  realm. 

Halt !  My  business  is  to  describe  a  heroine,  — 
not  to  discuss  physiognomy,  with  her  face  for  a 
type. 

As  I  said,  her  nose  was  sensitive  and  proud. 
There  might  have  once  been  scorn  in  the  curve 
of  her  nostril.  Not  now.  Sorrow  and  pity  had 
educated  away  the  scorn,  as  they  had  the  tones  of 
challenge  from  her  voice.  Firmness,  self-respect, 
latent  indignation,  remained  untouched.  A  strong 
woman,  whose  power  was  intense  and  passionate. 
Calm,  till  the  time  came,  and  then  flame.  Be- 
ware of  arousing  her!  Not  that  there  was  re- 
venge in  her  face.  No  ;  no  stab  or  poison  there. 
But  she  was  a  woman  to  die  by  an  act  of  will, 
rather  than  be  wronged.  She  was  one  who  could 
hold  an  insulter  by  a  steady  look,  while  she  grew 
paler,  paler,  purer,  purer,  with  a  more  unearthly 
pureness,  until  she  had  crushed  the  boiling  blood 


110  JOHN   BEENT. 

back  into  lier  heart,  and  stood  before  the  wretch 
white  and  chill  as  a  statue,  marble-dead. 

What  a  woman  to  meet  in  a  Mormon  caravan ! 
And  yet  how  able  to  endure  whatever  a  dastard 
Fate  might  send  to  crush  her  there ! 

Her  hair  was  caught  back,  and  severely  chided 
out  of  its  wish  to  rebel  and  be  as  beautiful  as  it 
knew  was  its  desert.  It  was  tendril  hair,  black 
enough  to  show  blackness  against  Fulano's  shoul- 
der. Chide  her  locks  as  she  might,  tliey  still 
insisted  upon  flinging  out  here  and  there  a  slen- 
der curling  token  of  their  gracefulness,  to  prove 
what  it  might  be  if  she  would  but  let  them  have 
their  sweet  and  wilful  will. 

Her  eyes  were  gray,  with  violet  touches.  Her 
eyebrows  defined  and  square.  If  she  had  had 
passionate  or  pleading  dark  eyes,  —  the  eyes  that 
hardly  repress  their  tears  for  sorrow  or  for  joy, 
—  and  the  temperament  that  such  eyes  reveal, 
she  would  long  ago  have  fevered  or  wept  herself 
to  death.  No  woman  could  have  looked  at  the 
disgusts  of  that  life  of  hers  through  tears,  and 
lived.  The  gray  eyes  meant  steadiness,  patience, 
hope  without  flinching,  and  power  to  master  fate, 
or  if  not  to  master,  to  defy. 

She  was  somewhat  pale,  thin,  and  sallow. 
Plodding  wearily  and  drearily  over  those  dusty 
tvastes  toward  exile  could  not  make  her  a  merry 
Nut-Brown  Maid.    Only  her  thin,  red  lips  proved 


"ELLEN!    ELLEN!"  Ill 

thai    there   were   still    blushes    lurking   out  of 
sight. 

A  mature  woman ;  beyond  girlhood,  body  and 
soul.  With  all  her  grave  demeanor,  she  could 
not  keep  down  the  wiles  of  gracefulness  that  ever 
bubbled  to  the  surface.  If  she  could  but  be  her 
happy  self,  what  a  fair  world  she  would  suddenly 
create  about  her ! 

She  was  dressed  in  rough  gray  cloth,  as  any 
lady  might  be  for  a  journey.  She  was  evidently 
one  whose  resolute  neatness  repels  travel-stains. 
After  the  tawdry,  draggled  silks  of  the  young 
women  we  had  just  seen,  her  simplicity  was 
charmingly  fresh.  Could  she  and  they  be  of 
the  same  race  of  beings  ?  They  were  apart  as 
far  as  coarse  from  fine,  as  silvern  from  brazen. 
To  see  her  here  among  this  horde  was  a  horror 
in  itself.  No  horror  the  less,  that  she  could 
not  blind  herself  to  her  position  and  her  fate. 
She  could  not  fail  to  see  what  a  bane  was 
beauty  here.  That  she  had  done  so  was  evi- 
dent. She  had  essayed  by  severe  plainness  of 
dress  to  erase  the  lady  from  her  appearance.  A 
very  idle  attempt !  There  she  was,  do  what  she 
would,  her  beauty  triumphing  over  all  the  wrong 
she  did  to  it  for  duty's  sake. 

All  these  observations  I  made  with  one  glance. 
Description  seems  idle  when  one  remembers  how 
eyes  can  see  at  a  flash  what  it  took  aeons  to 
prepare  for  and  a  lifetime  to  form. 


112  JOHN   BRENT. 

Brent  and  I  exchanged  looks.  This  was  the 
result  of  our  fanciful  presentiments.  Here  was 
visible  the  woman  we  had  been  dreading  to 
find.  It  still  seemed  an  impossible  vision.  I  al- 
most believed  that  the  old  gentleman's  blanket 
would  rise  with  him  and  his  daughter,  like  the 
carpet  of  Portunatus,  and  transport  them  sud- 
denly away,  leaving  us  beside  a  Mormon  wagon 
in  Sizzum's  camp  and  in  the  presence  of  a  frowzy 
family  cooking  a  supper  of  pork. 

I  looked  again  and  again.  It  was  all  real 
There  was  the  neat,  comfortable  wagon ;  there 
was  the  feeble,  timid  old  gentleman,  pottering 
about ;  there  was  this  beautiful  girl,  busy  with 
her  tea,  and  smiling  tenderly  over  her  father. 


CHAPTER    XI. 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


"  Come,  gentlemen,"  said  the  father,  in  a  lively 
way.  "  We  are  all  campaigners.  Sit  down  and 
take  a  cup  of  tea  with  us.  No  ceremony.  A 
la  guerre,  comme  a  la  guerre.  I  cannot  give 
you  Sevres  porcelain.  I  am  afraid  even  my 
delf  is  a  little  cracked ;  but  we  '11  fancy  it  whole 
and  painted  with  roses.  Now  plenty  of  tea,  Ellen 
dear.  Guests  are  too  rare  not  to  be  welcomed 
with  our  very  best.  Besides,  I  expect  Brother 
Sizzum,  after  his  camp  duties  are  over." 

It  was  inexpressibly  dreary,  this  feeble  con- 
viviality. In  the  old  gentleman's  heart  it  was 
plain  that  disappointment  and  despondency  were 
the  permanent  tenants.  His  gayety  seemed  only 
a  mockery,  —  a  vain  essay  to  delude  himself 
into  the  thought  that  he  could  be  happy  even 
for  a  moment.  His  voice,  even  while  he  jested, 
was  hollow  and  sorrowful.  There  was  a  trepi- 
dation in  his  manner,  half  hope,  half  fear,  as 
if  he  dreaded  that  some  one  would  presently 
announce  to  him  a  desperate  disaster,  or  fancied 


H 


114  JOHN  BRENT. 

that  some  sudden  piece  of  good  luck  was  about 
to  befall  him,  and  he  must  be  all  attention  lest 
it  pass  to  another.  Nothing  of  the  anxiety  of 
a  guilty  man  about  him,  —  of  one  who  hears 
pursuit  in  the  hum  of  a  cricket  or  the  buzz  of 
a  bee  ;  only  the  uneasiness  of  one  flying  for- 
ever from  himself,  and  hoping  that  some  chance 
bliss  will  hold  his  flight  and  give  him  a  moment's 
forgetfulness. 

We  of  course  accepted  the  kindly  invitation. 
Civilization  was  the  novelty  to  us.  Tea  with  a 
gentleman  and  lady  was  a  privilege  quite  un 
heard  of.  We  should  both  have  been  ready  to 
devote  ourselves  to  a  woman  far  less  charming 
than  our  hostess.  But  here  was  a  pair  —  the 
beautiful  daughter,  the  father  astray  —  whom  we 
must  know  more  of.  I  felt  myself  taking  a  very 
tender  interest  in  their  welfare,  revolving  plans 
in  my  mind  to  learn  their  history,  and,  if  it  might 
be  done,  to  persuade  the  father  out  of  his  delu- 
sion. 

"^ow,  gentlemen,"  said  our  friend,  playing 
his  part  with  mild  gracefulness,  like  an  accom- 
plished host ;  "  sit  down  on  the  blankets.  I  can- 
not give  you  grand  arm-chairs,  as  I  might  have 
done  once  in  Old  England,  and  hope  to  do  if  you 
ever  come  to  see  me  at  my  house  in  Deseret. 
But  really  we  are  forgetting  something  very  im- 
portant.   We  have  not  been  formally  introduced. 


FATHER   AND   DAUGHTEB.  115 

Bless  me !  that  will  never  do.  Allow  me  gentle- 
men to  present  myself,  Mr.  Hugh  Clitheroe, 
late  of  Clitheroe  Hall,  Clitheroe,  Lancashire, — 
a  good  old  name,  you  see.  And  this  is  my  daugh- 
ter. Miss  Ellen  Clitheroe.  These  gentlemen,  my 
dear,  will  take  the  liberty  to  present  themselves 
to  you." 

"Mr,  Richard  Wade,  late  of  California;  Mr. 
John  Brent,  a  roving  Yankee.  Pray  let  me  aid 
you  Miss  Clitheroe." 

Brent  took  the  teakettle  from  her  hand,  and 
filled  the  teapot.  This  little  domestic  office 
opened  the  way  to  other  civil  services. 

It  was  like  a  masquerading  scene.  My  hand- 
some friend  and  the  elegant  young  lady  bending 
together  over  four  cracked  cups  and  as  many 
plates  of  coarse  earthenware,  spread  upon  a 
shawl,  on  the  dry  grass.  The  circle  of  wagons, 
the  groups  of  Saints  about  their  supper  fires, 
the  cattle  and  the  fort  in  the  distance,  made  a" 
strangely  unreal  background  to  a  woman  whose 
proper  place,  for  open  air,  was  in  the  ancient 
avenue  of  some  ancestral  park,  or  standing  on 
the  terrace  to  receive  groups  of  brilliant  ladies 
coming  up  the  lawn.  But  character  is  superior 
to  circumstance,  and  Miss  Clitheroe's  self-posses- 
sion controlled  her  scenery.  Her  place,  wher- 
ever it  was,  became  her  right  place.  The  prairie, 
and  the  wagons,  and  the  rough  accessories,  gave 
force  to  her  refinement. 


116  JOHN  BKENT. 

Mr.  Clitheroe  regarded  the  pair  with  a  dreamy 
pleasure. 

"  Quite  patriarchal,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  he  to  me. 
"  I  could  fancy  myself  Laban,  and  my  daughter 
Rachel.  There  is  a  trace  of  the  Oriental  in  her 
looks.  We  only  need  camels,  and  this  would  be 
a  scene  worthy  of  the  times  of  the  Eastern  patri- 
archs and  the  plains  of  the  old  Holy  Land.  We 
of  the  Latter  Day  Church  think  much  of  such 
associations  ;  more  I  suppose  than  you  world's 
people." 

And  here  the  old  gentleman  looked  at  me 
uneasily,  as  if  he  dreaded  lest  I  should  fling 
in  a  word  to  disturb  his  illusion,  or  perhaps  ridi- 
cule his  fi^ith. 

"  I  have  often  been  reminded  here  of  the  land- 
scape of  Palestine,"  said  I,  "  and  those  bare  re- 
gions of  the  Orient.  Your  friends  in  Utah,  too, 
refresh  the  association  by  their  choice  of  Biblical 
names." 

"  Yes ;  we  love  to  recall  those  early  days  when 
Jehovah  was  near  to  his  people,  a  chosen  peo- 
ple, who  suffered  for  faith's  sake,  as  we  have 
done.  Li  fact,  our  new  faith  and  new  revelation 
are  only  revivals  and  continuations  of  the  old. 
Our  founder  and  our  prophets  give  us  the  doc- 
trines of  the  earliest  Church,  with  a  larger  light 
and  a  surer  confidence." 

He  said  this  with  the  manner  of  one  who  ia 


FATHER   AND   DAUGHTER.  117 

repeating  for  the  thousandth  time  a  lesson,  a 
formula  which  he  must  keep  constantly  before 
him,  or  its  effect  will  be  gone.  In  fact,  his 
resolute  assertion  of  his  creed  showed  the  weak 
belief.  As  he  paused,  he  looked  at  me  again, 
hoping,  as  I  thought,  that  I  would  dispute  or 
differ,  and  so  he  might  talk  against  contradic- 
tion, a  far  less  subtle  enemy  than  doubt.  As  I 
did  not  immediately  take  up  the  discussion,  he 
passed  lightly,  and  with  the  air  of  one  whose 
mind  does  not  love  to  be  consecutive,  to  another 
subject. 

"Hunters,  are  you  not  ?"  said  he,  turning  to 
Brent.  "  I  am  astonished  that  more  of  you 
American  gentlemen  do  not  profit  by  this  great 
buffalo-preserve  and  deer-park.  We  send  you 
a  good  shot  occasionally  from  England." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  friend.  "  I  had  a  capital  shot, 
and  capital  fellow  too  for  comrade,  this  summer, 
in  the  mountains.  A  countryman  of  yours.  Sir 
Biron  Biddulph.  He  was  wretchedly  out  of 
sorts,  poor  fellow,  when  we  started.  Fresh  air 
and  bold  life  quite  set  him  up.  A  month's 
galloping  with  the  buffalo,  and  a  fortnight  over 
the  cliffs,  after  the  big-horn,  would  '  put  a  soul 
under  the  ribs  of  death.'  Biddulph  left  me  to  go 
home,  a  new  man.  I  find  that  he  has  stayed  in 
Utah,  for  more  hunting,  I  suppose." 

Brent  was  kneeling  at  Miss  Clitheroe's  feet, 


118  JOHN  BRENT. 

holding  a  cup  for  her  to  fill.  He  turned  toward 
her  father  as  he  spoke.  At  the  name  of  Bid- 
dulph,  I  saw  that  her  red  lips'  promise  of  pos- 
sible blushes  was  no  false  one. 

"  Ah !  "  thought  I ;  "  here,  perhaps,  is  the  ro- 
mance of  the  Baronet's  history.  No  wonder  he 
found  England  too  narrow  for  him,  if  this  noble 
woman  wovild  not  smile !  Perhaps  he  has  stopped 
in  Utah  to  renew  his  suit,  or  volunteer  his  ser- 
vices. A  strange  drama !  with  new  elements  of 
interest  coming  in." 

I  could  not  refrain  from  studying  Miss  Cli- 
theroe  with  some  curiosity  as  I  thought  thus. 

She  perceived  my  inquisitive  look.  She  made 
some  excuse,  and  stepped  into  the  wagon. 

"  Biddulph !  "  said  the  father.  "  Ellen  dear, 
Mr.  Brent  knows  our  old  neighbor,  Biron  Bid- 
dulph. 0,  she  has  disappeared,  '  on  hospitable 
thoughts  intent.'  I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet 
an  old  friend  in  Deseret.  We  knew  him  inti- 
mately at  home  in  better  days,  —  no !  in  those 
days  I  blindly  deemed  better,  before  I  was  illu- 
mined with  the  glories  of  the  new  faith,  and  saw 
the  New  Jerusalem  with  eyes  of  hope." 

Miss  Clitheroe  rejoined  us.  She  had  been  ab- 
sent only  a  moment,  but,  as  I  could  see,  long 
enough  for  tears,  and  the  repression  of  tears.  I 
should  have  pitied  her  more  ;  but  she  seemed,  in 
her  stout-hearted  womanhood,  above  pity,  asking 


FATHER  ANI>   DAUGHTER.  119 

no  more  than  the  sympathy  the  brave  have  al- 
ways ready  for  the  sorrowful  brave. 

Evidently  to  change  the  subject,  she  engaged 
Brent  agam  in  his  tea-table  offices.  I  looked  at 
that  passionate  fellovt"  with  some  anxiety.  He 
was  putting  a  large  share  of  earnestness  in  his 
manner  of  holding  cups  and  distributing  hard- 
tack. Why  so  much  fervor  and  devotion,  my 
friend  ?  Seems  to  me  I  have  seen  cavaliers  be- 
fore, aiding  beauties  with  like  ardor,  on  the  car- 
pet, in  the  parlor,  over  the  Sevres  and  the  silver. 
And  when  I  saw  it,  I  thought,  "  0  cavalier !  0 
beauty !  beware,  or  do  not  beware,  just  as  you 
deem  best,  but  know  that  there  is  peril !  For 
love  can  improvise  out  of  the  steam  of  a  teapot 
a  romance  as  big  and  sudden  and  irrepressible  as 
the  Afreet  that  swelled  from  the  casket  by  the 
sea-shore  in  the  Arabian  story. 

We  sat  down  iipon  the  grass  for  our  picnic. 
I  should  not  invite  the  late  Mr.  Watteau,  or  even 
the  extant  Mr.  Diaz,  to  paint  us.  The  late  Mr. 
Wattcau's  heroes  and  heroines  were  silk  and 
satin  Arcadians  ;  they  had  valets  de  chambre 
and  filles  de  chambre,  and  therefore  could  be 
not  fully  heroes  and  heroines,  if  proverbs  be 
true.  The  present  Mr.  Diaz,  too,  charming  and 
pretty  as  he  is,  has  his  place  near  parterres  and 
terraces,  within  the  reach  of  rake  and  broom. 
Mr.  Horace  Yernet  is  equally  inadmissible,  since 


120  JOHN  BEENT. 

that  martial  personage  does  not  comprehend  a 
desert,  except  with  a  foreground  of  blood,  smoke, 
baggy  red  pantaloons,  and  mon  General  on  a 
white  horse  giving  the  Legion  of  Honor  to  mon 
enfant  on  his  last  legs.  But  I  must  wait  for 
some  artist  with  the  gayety  of  Mr.  Watteau,  the 
refinement  of  Mr.  Diaz,  and  the  soldierly  force 
of  Mr.  Vernet,  who  can  perceive  the  poetry  of 
American  caravan-life,  and  can  get  the  heroine 
of  our  picnic  at  Fort  Bridger  to  give  him  a  sit- 
ting. Art  is  unwise  not  to  perceive  the  materi- 
als it  neglects  in  such  scenes. 

Mr.  Clitheroe  grew  more  and  more  genial  as 
we  became  better  acquainted.  He  praised  the 
sunshine  and  the  climate.  England  had  nothing 
like  it,  so  our  host  asserted.  The  atmosphere  of 
England  crushed  the  body,  as  its  moral  atmos- 
phere repressed  perfect  freedom  of  thought  and 
action. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  I  have  escaped 
at  last  into  the  region  I  have  longed  for.  I  mean 
to  renew  my  youth  in  the  Promised  Land,  —  to 
have  my  life  over  again,  with  a  store  of  the  wis- 
dom of  age." 

Then  he  talked  pleasantly  of  the  incidents  of 
his  journey, — an  impressible  being,  taking  easily 
the  color  of  the  moment,  like  a  child.  He  liked 
travel,  he  said ;  it  was  dramatic  action  and  scene- 
shifting,  without  the  tragedy  or  the  over-absorb- 


FATHER   AXD   DAUGHTER.  121 

ing  interest  of  dramatic  plot.  He  liked  to  have 
facts  come  to  him  without  being  laboriously 
sought  for,  as  they  do  in  travel.  The  eye,  with- 
out trouble,  took  in  whatever  appeared,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  day  a  traveller  found  himself 
expanded  and  educated  without  knowing  it. 
There  was  a  fine  luxury  in  this,  for  a  mature 
man  to  learn  again,  just  as  a  child  does,  and 
find  his  lessons  play.  He  liked  this  novel,  ad- 
venturous hfe. 

"  Think  of  it,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  have  seen  real 
Indians,  splendid  fellows,  all  in  their  war-paint ; 
just  such  as  I  used  to  read  of  with  delight  in 
your  Mr.  Fenimore's  tales.  And  these  prai- 
ries too,  —  I  seem  to  have  visited  them  already 
in  the  works  of  your  charming  Mr.  Irving,  —  a 
very  pleasant  author,  very  pleasant  indeed,  and 
quite  reminding  me  of  our  best  essayists  ;  though 
he  has  an  American  savor  too.  Mr.  Irving,  I 
think,  did  not  come  out  so  far  as  this.  This 
region  has  never  been  described  by  any  one 
with  a  poetic  eye.  My  brethren  in  the  Church 
of  the  Latter  Day  have  their  duties  of  stern 
apostleship ;  they  cannot  turn  aside  to  the  right 
hand  nor  to  the  left.  But  when  the  Saints  are 
gathered  in,  they  will  begin  to  see  the  artistic 
features  of  their  land.  Those  Wind  River  Moun- 
tains—  fine  name,  by  the  way  —  that  I  saw  from 
the   South   Pass,  —  they   seem  to   me  quite   an 

6 


122  JOHN   BRENT. 

ideal  Sierra.  Their  blue  edges  ai\d  gleaming 
snow-peaks  were  great  society  for  us  as  we 
came  by.  We  are  very  fond  of  scenery,  sir,  my 
daughter  and  I,  and  this  breadth  of  effect  is  very 
impressive  after  England.  England,  you  know, 
sir,  is  tame,  —  a  snug  little  place,  but  quite  a 
prison  for  people  of  scope.  Lancashire,  my  old 
home,  is  very  pretty,  but  not  grand ;  quite  the 
contrary.  I  have  grown  really  quite  tired  of 
green  grass,  and  well-kept  lawns,  and  the  shaved, 
beardless,  effeminate  look  of  my  native  country. 
This  rough  nature  is  masculine.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  youth  of  the  world.  I  like  to  be  in 
the  presence  of  strong  forces.  I  am  not  afraid 
of  the  Orson  feeling.  Besides,  in  Lancashire, 
particularly,  we  never  see  the  sun ;  we  see 
smoke  ;  we  breathe  smoke  ;  smoke  spoils  the  fra- 
grance and  darkens  the  hue  of  all  our  life.  1 
hate  chimneys,  sir ;  I  have  seen  great  fortunes 
go  up  them.  I  might  perhaps  tell  you  some- 
thing of  my  own  experience  in  looking  up  a 
certain  tall  chimney  not  a  hundred  miles  from 
CHtheroe,  and  seeing  ancestral  acres  fly  up  it, 
and  ancestral  pictures  and  a  splendid  old  man- 
sion all  going  off  in  smoke.  But  you  are  a 
stranger,  and  do  not  care  about  hearing  my  old 
gossip.  Besides,  what  is  the  loss  of  houses  and 
lands,  if  one  finds  the  pearl  of  great  price, 
and  wins  the  prophet's  crown  and  the  saint's 
throne  ?  " 


FATHER   AND   DAUGHTER.  123 

And  here  the  gray-haired,  pale,  dreamy  old 
gentlenian  paused,  and  a  half-quenched  lire  glim- 
mered in  his  eye.  His  childish,  fanatical  am- 
bition stirred  him,  and  he  smiled  with  a  look 
of  triumph. 

I  was  silent  in  speechless  pity. 

His  daughter  turned,  and  smiled  with  almost 
tearful  tenderness  upon  her  father. 

"  I  have  not  heard  you  so  animated  for  a  long 
time,  dear  father,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Wade  seems 
quite  to  inspire  you." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  he  has  been  talking  on  many 
very  interesting  topics." 

I  had  really  done  nothing  except  to  bow,  and 
utter  those  civil  monosyllables  which  are  the 
"  Hear !  hear !  "  of  conversation. 

If  I  had  been  silent.  Brent  had  not.  While 
the  garrulous  old  gentleman  was  prattling  on  at 
full  speed,  I  had  heard  all  the  time  my  friend's 
low,  melodious  voice,  as  he  talked  to  the  lady. 
He  was  a  trained  artist  in  the  fine  art  of  sym- 
pathy. His  own  early  sorrows  had  made  him 
infinitely  tender  with  all  that  suffer.  To  their 
hearts  he  came  as  one  that  had  a  right  to  enter, 
as  one  that  knew  their  malady,  and  was  com- 
manded to  lay  a  gentle  touch  of  soothing  there. 
It  is  a  great  power  to  have  known  the  worst 
and  bitterest  that  can  befall  the  human  life,  and 
yet   not  be   hardened.      No   sufferer   can   resist 


124  JOHN  BEENT. 

the  fine  magnetism  of  a  wise  and  unintrusive  pity. 
It  is  as  mild  and  healing  as  music  by  night 
to  fevered  sleeplessness. 

The  lady's  protective  armor  of  sternness  was 
presently  thrown  aside.  She  perceived  that  she 
need  not  wear  it  against  a  man  who  was  brother 
to  every  desolate  soul,  —  sisterly  indeed,  so  del- 
icate was  his  comprehension  of  the  wants  of  a 
woman's  nature.  In  fact,  both  father  and  daugh- 
ter, as  soon  as  they  discovered  that  we  were 
ready  to  be  their  friends,  met  us  frankly.  It  was 
easy  to  see,  poor  souls  !  that  it  was  long  since 
they  had  found  any  one  fit  company  for  them, 
any  one  whose  presence  could  excite  the  care- 
beguiling  exhilaration  of  worthy  society.  )  They 
savored  the  aroma  of  good-breeding  with  appe- 
tite. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

A  GHOUL  AT  THE  FEAST. 

Me.  Clitheeoe's  thoughts  loved  to  recur  to  his 
native  Lancashire,  smoky  though  its  air  might 
be,  and  clean-shaved  the  grass  of  its  lawns.  I 
could  not  help  believing  that  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  this  weak,  gentle  nature  for  the  bleak  plains 
and  his  pioneer  life  was  a  delusion.  It  would 
have  been  pretty  talk  for  an  after-dinner  rhap- 
sody at  the  old  mansion  he  had  spoken  of  in 
England.  There,  as  he  paced  with  me,  a  guest, 
after  pointing  out  the  gables,  wings,  oriels, 
porches,  that  had  clustered  about  the  old  build- 
ing age  after  age,  he  might  have  waved  it  away 
into  a  vision,  and  spoken  with  disdain  of  civil- 
ization, and  with  delight  of  the  tent  and  the 
caravan.  It  had  the  flavor  of  Arcady,  and  the 
Golden  Age,  and  the  simple  childhood  of  the 
world,  when  an  enthusiastic  Rousseauist  Mar- 
quis talked  in  '89  of  the  rights  of  man  and  uni- 
versal fraternity  ;  it  would  seem  a  crazy  mockery 
if  the  same  enthusiast  had  held  the  same  strain 
a  few  years  later,  in  the  tumbril,  as  he  rolled 


126  JOHN  BEENT. 

slowly  along  through  cruel  crowds  to  the  guillo- 
tine. 

Speaking  of  Lancashire,  we  fell  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  coal-mining.  I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
Mr.  Clitheroe  had  a  practical  knowledge  of  that 
business.  He  talked  for  the  first  time  without 
any  of  his  dreamy,  vague  manner.  His  informa- 
tion was  full  and  clear.  He  let  daylight  into 
those  darksome  pits. 

"  I  am  a  mmer,  too,"  said  I,  "  but  only  of 
gold,  a  baser  and  less  honorable  substance  than 
coal.  Your  account  has  a  professional  interest 
to  me.     You  talk  like  an  expert." 

"  I  ought  to  be.  If  I  once  saw  half  my  for- 
tune fly  up  a  factory  chimney,  I  saw  another 
half  bury  itself  in  a  coal-pit.  I  have  been  bur- 
ied myself  in  one.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say 
it ;  I  have  made  daily  bread  for  myself  and  my 
daughter  with  pick,  shovel,  and  barrow,  in  a  dark 
coal-mine,  in  the  same  county  where  I  was  once 
the  head  of  the  ancient  gentry,  and  where  I  saw 
the  noblest  in  the  land  proud  to  break  my  bread 
and  drink  my  wine.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it. 
No,  I  glory  that  in  that  black  cavern,  where  day- 
light never  looked,  the  brightness  of  the  new 
faith  found  me,  and  showed  the  better  paths 
where  I  now  walk,  and  shall  walk  upward  and 
onward  imtil  I  reach  the  earthly  Sion  first,  and 
then  the  heavenly." 


A   GHOUL   AT   THE   FEAST.  127 

iigain  the  old  gentleman's  eye  kindled,  and 
his  chest  expanded.  What  a  tragic  life  he  was 
hinting !  My  heart  yearned  toward  him.  I  had 
never  known  what  it  was  to  have  the  guidance 
and  protection  of  a  father.  Mine  died  when  I 
was  a  child.  I  longed  to  find  a  compensation 
for  my  own  want,  —  and  a  bitter  one  it  had 
sometimes  been,  —  in  being  myself  the  guardian 
of  this  errant  wayfarer,  launched  upon  lethal 
currents. 

"  Your  faith  is  as  bright  as  ever.  Brother 
Hugh,"  said  a  rasping  voice  behind  me,  as  Mr. 
Clitheroe  was  silent.  "  You  are  an  example  to 
us  all.  The  Chiu-ch  is  highly  blessed  in  such  an 
earnest  disciple." 

Elder  Sizzum  was  the  speaker.  He  smiled  in 
a  wolfish  fashion  over  the  group,  and  took  his 
seat  beside  the  lady,  like  a  privileged  guest. 

"  Ah,  Brother  Sizzum  !  "    said  Mr.   Clitheroe, 
with  a  cheerless  attempt  at  welcome,  very  differ- 
ent from  the  frank  courtesy  he  had  showed  to 
ward  us,  "  we  have  been  expecting  you.     Ellen 
dear,  a  cup  of  tea  for  our  friend." 

Miss  Clitheroe  rose  to  pour  out  tea  for  him. 
Sheep's  clothing  instantly  covered  the  apostle's 
rather  wolfish  demeanor.  He  assumed  a  man- 
ner of  gamesome,  sheepish  devotion.  When  he 
called  her  Sister  Ellen,  with  a  famiUar,  tender 
air,  I  saw  painful  blushes  redden  the  lady's 
cheeks. 


128  JOHN   BRENT. 

Brent  noticed  the  pain  and  the  blush.  He 
looked  away  from  the  group  toward  the  blue 
sierra  far  away  to  the  south ;  a  hard  expression 
came  into  his  face,  such  as  I  had  not  seen  there 
since  the  old  days  of  his  battling  with  Swerger. 
Trouble  ahead  ! 

Sizzum's  presence  quenched  the  party.  And, 
indeed,  our  late  cheerfulness  was  untimely,  at 
the  best.  It  was  mockery,  —  as  if  the  Marquis 
should  have  sung  merry  chansons  in  the  tum- 
bril. 

Miss  Clitheroe  at  once  grew  cold  and  stern. 
Nothing  could  be  more  distant  than  her  manner 
toward  the  saint.  She  treated  him  as  a  high- 
bred woman  can  treat  a  scrub,  —  sounding  with 
every  gesture,  and  measuring  with  every  word, 
the  ineflfaceable  gulf  between  them.  Yet  she 
was  thoroughly  civil  as  hostess.  She  even 
seemed  to  fight  against  herself  to  be  friendly. 
But  it  was  clear  to  a  by-stander  that  she  loathed 
the  apostle.  That  she  was  not  charmed  with  his 
society,  even  his  coarse  nature  could  not  fail  to 
discover.  Anywhere  else  the  scene  would  have 
been  comic.  Here  he  had  the  power.  No  es- 
cape ;  n3  refuge.  That  thrust  all  comedy  out  of 
the  drama,  and  left  only  very  hateful  tragedy. 
Still  it  was  a  cruel  semblance  of  comedy  over  a 
tragic  under-plot,  to  see  the  Mormon's  cringing 
approaches,  and  that  exquisite  creature's  calm 


A    GHOUL   AT   THE   FEAST.  129 

rebuffs.  Sizzum  felt  himself  pinned  in  his  proper 
place,  and  writhed  there,  with  an  evil  look,  that 
said  he  was  noting  all  and  treasuring  all  against 
his  day  of  vengeance. 

And  the  poor,  feeble  old  father,  —  how  all  his 
geniality  was  blighted  and  withered  away !  He 
was  no  more  the  master  of  revels  at  a  festival, 
but  the  ruined  man,  with  a  bailiff  in  disguise  at 
his  dinner-table.  Querulous  tones  murmured  in 
his  voice.  The  decayed  gentleman  disappeared  ; 
the  hapless  fanatic  took  his  place.  Phrases  of 
cant,  and  the  peculiar  Mormon  slang  and  profan- 
ity, gave  the  color  to  his  conversation.  He  ap- 
pealed to  Sizzum  constantly.  He  was  at  once  the 
bigoted  disciple  and  the  cowed  slave.  Toward  his 
daughter  his  manner  was  sometimes  timorously 
pleading,  sometimes  almost  surly.  Why  could 
she  not  repress  her  disgust  at  the  holy  man,  at 
least  in  the  presence  of  strangers  ?  —  that  seemed 
to  be  his  feeling  ;  and  he  strove  to  withdraw  at- 
tention from  her  by  an  eager,  trepidating  attempt 
to  please  his  master.  In  short,  the  vulgar,  hard- 
headed  knave  had  this  weak,  lost  gentleman  thor- 
oughly in  his  power.  Mr.  Clitheroe  was  like  a 
lamb  whom  the  shepherd  intends  first  to  shear 
close,  then  to  worry  to  death  with  curs,  and  at 
last  to  cut  up  into  keebaubs. 

Brent  and  I  kept  aloof  as  much  as  we  might. 
We  should  only  have  insulted  the  chosen  vessel, 

6*  1 


130  JOHN  BRENT. 

and  so  injured  our  friends.  Lideed,  our  pres- 
ence seemed  little  welcome  to  Sizzum.  He  of 
course  knew  that  the  Gentiles  saw  through  him, 
and  despised  him  frankly.  There  is  nothing 
more  uneasy  than  a  scrub  hard  at  work  to  please 
a  woman,  while  by-standers  whom  he  feels  to  be 
his  betters  observe  without  interference.  But 
we  could  not  amuse  ourselves  with  the  scene ;  it 
sickened  us  more  and  more. 

Sunset  came  speedily,  —  the  delicious,  dreamy 
sunset  of  October.  In  the  tender  regions  of  twi- 
light, where  the  sky,  so  mistily  mellow,  met  the 
blue  horizon,  the  western  world  became  a  world 
of  happy  hope.  Could  it  be  that  wrong  and.  sin 
dwelt  there  in  that  valley  far  away  among  the 
mountains  !  Baseness  where  that  glory  rested  ! 
Foulness  underneath  that  crescent  moon !  Could 
it  be  that  there  was  one  unhappy,  one  impure 
heart  within  the  cleansing,  baptismal  flow  of  that 
holy  light  of  evening  ! 

With  sunset.  Elder  Sizzum,  after  some  oily 
vulgarisms  of  compliment  to  the  lady,  walked 
off  on  camp  duty. 

We  also  rose  to  take  our  leave.  We  must  look 
ifter  our  horses. 

Mr.  Clitheroe's  old  manner  returned  the  in- 
stant his  spiritual  guide  left  us. 

"  Pray  come  and  see  us  again  this  evening, 
gentlemen,"  said  he. 


A   GHOUL   AT    THE   FEAST.  131 

"  We  will  certainly,"  said  Brent,  looking  to- 
ward Miss  Clitlieroe  for  her  invitation. 

It  did  not  come.  And  I,  from  my  position 
as  Chorus,  thought,  "  She  is  wise  not  to  en- 
courage in  herself  or  my  friend  this  brief  in- 
timacy. Mormons  will  not  seem  any  the  better 
company  to-morrow  for  her  relapse  into  the 
society  of  gentlemen  to-night." 

"  0  yes  !  "  said  Mr.  Clitheroe,  interpreting 
Brent's  look ;  "  my  daughter  will  be  charmed 
to  see  you.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  our  breth- 
ren in  the  camp  are  worthy  people ;  we  sym- 
pathize deeply  in  the  faith ;  but  they  are  not 
altogether  in  manners  or  education  quite  such 
as  we  have  been  sometimes  accustomed  to.  It 
is  one  of  the  infamous  wrongs  of  our  English 
system  of  caste  that  it  separates  brother  men, 
manners,  language,  thought,  and  life.  We  have 
as  yet  been  able  to  have  little  except  religious 
communion  with  our  fellow-travellers  toward 
the  Promised  Land,  —  except,  of  course,  with 
Brother  Sizzum,  who  is,  as  you  see,  quite  a  man 
of  society,  as  well  as  an  elect  apostle  of  a  great 
cause.  We  are  quite  selfish  in  asking  you  to  re- 
peat your  visit.  Besides  the  welcome  we  should 
give  you  for  yourselves,  we  welcome  you  also 
as  a  novelty."  And  then  he  muttered,  half 
to  himself,  "  God  forgive  me  for  speaking  after 
the  flesh!" 


132  JOHN   BRENT. 


ii 


Come,  Wade,"  said  my  friend.  Ajid  he 
griped  my  arm  almost  savagely.  "  Until  this 
evening  then,  Mr.  Clitheroe." 

As  we  moved  away  from  the  wagon,  where 
the  lady  stood,  so  worn  and  sad,  and  yet  so 
lovely,  her  poor  father's  only  guard  and  friend, 
we  met  Murker  and  Larrap,  They  were  saun- 
tering about,  prying  into  the  wagons,  inspect- 
ing the  groups,  making  observations  —  that  were 
perhaps  only  curiosity  —  with  a  base,  guilty,  bur- 
glarious look. 

"  He,  he  !  "  laughed  Larrap,  leering  at  Brent. 
"  I  '11  be  switched  ef  you  're  not  sharp.  You 
know  where  to  look  for  the  pooty  gals,  blowed 
ef  yer  don't !  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  "  Brent  made  a  spring 
at  the  fellow. 

"  No  offence !  no  offence  ! "  muttered  he,  shrink- 
ing back,  with  a  cowardly,  venomous  look. 

"  Mind  your  business,  and  keep  a  civil  tongue 
in  your  head,  or  there  will  be  offence !  "  Brent 
turned  and  walked  off  in  silence.  Neither  of 
us  was  yet  ready  to  begin  our  talk  on  this 
evening's  meeting. 

Our  horses,  if  not  their  masters,  were  quite 
ready  for  joyous  conversation.  They  had  en- 
countered no  pang  in  the  region  of  Fort  Bridger. 
Grass  in  plenty  was  there,  and  they  neighed 
us   good  evening    in  their    most    dulcet    tones. 


A   GHOUL   AT   THE   FEAST.  133 

They  frisked  about,  and,  neighing  and  frisking, 
informed  us  that,  in  their  opinion,  the  world 
was  all  right,  —  a  perfectly  jolly  place,  with  abun- 
dance to  eat,  little  to  do,  and  everybody  a 
friend.  A  capital  world !  according  to  Pumps 
and  Don  Fulano.  They  felt  no  trouble,  and 
saw  none  in  store.  Who  would  not  be  an  ani- 
mal and  a  horse,  unless  perchance  an  omnibus 
horse  sprawling  on  the  Russ  pavement,  or  a  fam- 
ily horse  before  a  carryall,  or  in  fact  any  horse 
in  slavish  position,  as  most  horses  are. 

We  shifted  oiu'  little  caballada  to  fresh  graz- 
ing-spots  sheltered  by  a  brake.  We  meant  to 
camp  there  apart  from  the  Mormon  caravan.  The 
talk  of  our  horses  had  not  cheered  us.  We  still 
busied  ourselves  m  silence.  Presently,  as  I  looked 
toward  the  train,  I  observed  two  figures  in  the 
distance  lurking  about  Mr.  Clitheroe's  wagon. 

"  See,"  said  I ;  "  there  are  those  two  gamblers 
<vgain.  I  don't  like  such  foul  vultures  hanging 
about  that  friendless  dove.  They  look  villains 
enough  for  any  outrage." 

"  But  they  are  powerless  here." 

"  In  the  presence  of  a  steadier  villany  they 
tire.  That  foul  Sizzum  is  quite  sure  of  his  prey. 
John  Brent,  what  can  be  done  ?  I  do  not  know 
which  I  feel  most  bitterly  for,  the  weary,  deluded 
old  gentleman,  doubting  his  error,  or  that  noble 
girl.     Poor,  friendless  souls  !  " 


134  JOHN   BEENT. 

*'  Friendless !  "  said  Brent.  "  She  has  made 
a  friend  in  me.  And  in  you  too,  if  you  are  the 
man  I  know." 

"  But  what  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  never  say  that  we  can  do  nothing  un- 
til she  repels  our  aid.  If  she  wants  help,  she 
must  have  it." 

"Help!  how?" 

"  I  will  find  a  way  or  make  one.  Sidney's 
thought  is  always  good.  You  and  I  can  never  die 
in  a  better  cause  than  this.  And  now,  Dick,  do 
not  let  us  perplex  ourselves  with  baseless  talk 
and  2Dlans.  We  will  see  them  again  to-night, 
when  Sizzum  is  not  by.  It  cannot  be  that  she 
is  in  sympathy  with  these  wretches." 

"  No ;  that  horrible  ogre,  Sizzum,  is  evidently 
disgusting  to  her ;  but  here  he  has  her  in  his 
den.  It  is  stronger  than  any  four  walls  in  the 
world,  —  all  this  waste  of  desert." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it ;  you  sicken  me." 

Something  more  in  earnest  than  the  tenderest 
pity  here.  I  saw  that  the  sudden  doom  of  love 
had  befallen  my  friend.  In  fact,  I  have  never 
been  quite  sure  but  that  the  same  would  have 
been  my  fate,  if  I  had  not  seen  him  a  step  in 
advance,  and  so  checked  myself.  His  time  had 
come.     Mine  had  not.     Will  it  ever  ? 

But  love  here  was  next  to  despair.  That  con- 
sciousness quickened  the  passion.     A  man  must 


A   GHOUL   AT   THE   FEAST.  135 

put  his  whole  being  into  the  cause,  or  th«  cause 
was  hopeless,  —  must  act  intensely,  as  only  a 
lover  acts,  or  not  at  all. 

I  determined  not  to  perplex  myself  yet  with 
schemes.  I  knew  my  friend's  bold  genius  and 
cool  judgment.  When  he  was  ready  to  act,  I 
would  back  him. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

JAKE  SHAMBEELAIN'S  BALL. 

It  grew  dusk.  Glimmering  camp-fires  marked 
the  circle  of  the  Mormon  caravan.  The  wagons 
seemed  each  one,  in  the  gloaming,  a  giant  white 
nightcap  of  an  ogress  leaning  over  her  coals. 
The  world  looked  drowsy,  and  invited  the  pil- 
grims toward  the  Mecca  of  the  new  Thingamy 
to  repose.  They  did  not  seem  inclined  to  accept. 
The  tramping  and  lowing  cattle  kept  up  a  tumult 
like  the  noise  of  a  far  city.  And  presently  an- 
other din ! 

As  Brent  and  I  approached  the  fort,  forth 
issued  Jake  Shamberlain,  with  a  drummer  on 
this  side  and  a  fifer  on  that.  "  Pop  goes  the 
"Weasel,"  the  fifer  blew.  A  tuneless  bang  re- 
sounded from  the  drum.  If  there  was  one  thing 
these  rival  melodists  scorned,  time  was  that 
one  thing.  They  might  have  been  beating  and 
blowing  with  the  eight  thousand  miles  of  the 
globe's  diameter  between  them,  instead  of  Jake 
Shamberlain's  person,  for  any  consideration  thej 
showed  to  each  other. 


JAKE   SHAMBERLAIN'S   BALL.  137 

Jake,  seeing  us,  backed  out  from  between  his 
orchestra,  who  continued  on,  beating  and  blowing 
in  measureless  content. 

"  We  're  going  to  give  a  ball,  gentlemen,  and 
request  the  honor  of  your  company  in  ten  min- 
utes, precisely.  Kids  not  allowed  on  account 
of  popular  prejudice.  Red-flannel  shirts  and 
boots  with  yaller  tops  is  rayther  the  go  fur 
dress." 

"  A  ball,  Jake !     Where  ?  " 

"  Why,  in  that  rusty  hole  of  old  Bridger's. 
Some  of  them  John  Bulls  has  got  their  fiddles 
along.  I  allowed  't  would  pay  to  scare  up  a 
dance.  Guess  them  gals  wont  be  the  wus  fur 
a  break-down  or  an  old-fashioned  hornpiper. 
They  hain't  seen  much  game  along  back,  ef 
their  looks  tells  the  story.  I  never  seed  sech  a 
down-heel  lot." 

Jake  ran  off  after  his  music.  We  heard  them, 
still  disdaining  time,  march  around  the  camp 
announcing  the  fandango, 

"  This  helps  us,"  said  Brent.  "  Our  friends, 
of  course,  will  not  join  the  riot.  When  the 
Mormons  are  fakly  engaged,  we  will  make  our 
visit." 

"  It  is  a  good  night  for  a  gallop,"  said  I. 

He  nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

Presently  Jake,  still  supported  by  his  pair  of 
melodists,  reappeared.     A  straggling  procession 


138  JOHN  BRENT. 

of  Saints  followed  him.  They  trooped  into  the 
enclosure,  a  motley  throng  indeed.  Even  that 
dry  husk  of  music,  hardly  even  cadence,  had  put 
some  spirits  into  them.  Noise,  per  se,  is  not 
without  virtue ;  it  means  life.  Shamberlain's 
guests  came  together,  laughing  and  talking. 
Their  laughter  was  not  liquid.  But  swallow- 
ing prairie-dust  does  not  instruct  in  dulcet 
tones.  Rather  wrinkled  merriment ;  but  still 
better  than  no  merriment  at  all. 

We  entered  with  the  throng.  Within  was  a 
bizarre  spectacle.  A  strange  night-scene  for  a 
rough-handed  Flemish  painter  of  low  life  to 
portray. 

The  palisades  of  old  Bridger's  Malakoff  en- 
closed a  space  of  a  hundred  feet  square.  A 
cattle-shed,  house,  and  trading-shop  surrounded 
three  sides  of  the  square.  The  rest  was  open 
court,  paved  with  clod,  the  native  carpet  of  the 
region.  Adobes,  crumbling  as  the  most  straw- 
less  bricks  ever  moulded  by  a  grumbling  He- 
brow  with  an  Egyptian  taskmaster,  were  the 
principal  material  of  Bridger's  messuage.  The 
cattle  on  Mr.  Mechi's  model  farm  would  have 
whisked  their  tails  and  turned  away  in  utter 
contempt  from  these  inelegant  accommodations. 
No  high-minded  pig  would  have  consented  to 
wallow  there.  The  khan  of  Cheronasa,  ab- 
horred of  Grecian  travellers,  is  a  sweeter  place. 


JAKE   SHAMBERLAIN'S   BALL.  189 

The  khan  of  Tiberias,  terror  of  pilgrims,  is  a 
cleaner  refuge.  Bridger's  Fort  was  as  musty  and 
infragrant  a  caravansary  as  any  of  those  dirty 
cloisters  of  the  Orient,  where  the  disillusioned 
howadji  sinks  into  the  arms  of  that  misery's  bed- 
fellow, the  King  of  the  Fleas,  —  which  kangaroo- 
legged  caliph,  let  me  say,  was  himself,  or  in 
the  person  of  a  vigorous  vizier,  on  the  spot  at 
the  Fort,  entertaining  us  strangers  according  to 
his  royal  notions  of  hospitality. 

Into  this  Court  of  Dirt  thronged  the  Latter- 
Day  Saints,  in  raiment  also  in  its  latter  day. 

"  The  ragamuffin  brigade,"  whispered  I  to 
Brent.  "  Jake  Shamberlain's  red-flannel  shirts 
and  yaller-topped  boots  would  be  better  than 
this  seediness  of  the  furbelowed  nymphs  and 
ole  clo'  swains.  Evidently  suits  of  full  dress  are 
not  to  be  hired  at  a  pinch  on  the  boulevards 
of  Sizzumville." 

Brent  made  no  answer,  and  surveyed  the 
throng  anxiously. 

"  They  have  not  come,  —  the  father  and  daugh- 
ter," he  said.  "  I  cannot  thmk  of  the  others 
now." 

"  Shall  we  go  to  them  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.     Sizzum  sees  us  and  will  suspect." 

We  stood  by  regarding,  too  much  concerned 
for  our  new  friends  to  feel  thoroughly  the  humor 
of  the  scene.     But  it  made  its  impression. 


140  JOHN  BRENT. 

For  lights  at  the  Shamberlain  ball,  instead 
of  the  gas  and  wax  of  civilization,  a  fire  blazed 
in  one  corner  of  the  court,  and  sundry  dips 
of  unmitigated  tallow,  with  their  perfume  un- 
diluted, flared  from  perches  against  the  wall. 
Overhead,  up  in  the  still,  clear  sky,  the  bare- 
faced stars  stared  at  the  spectacle,  and  shook 
their  cheeks  over  the  laughable  manceuvres  of 
terrestrials. 

The  mundane  lights,  fire  and  dips,  flashed 
and  glimmered  ;  the  skylights  twinkled  merrily ; 
the  guests  were  assembled ;  the  ball  waited  to 
begin. 

Jake  Shamberlain,  the  master  of  ceremonies, 
cleared  a  space  in  the  middle,  and  "  called  for 
his  fiddlers  three." 

A  board  was  laid  across  two  barrels,  and  upon 
it  Jake  arrayed  his  orchestra,  with  Brother  Bot- 
tery,  so  called,  for  leader.  Twang  went  the  fid- 
dles.    "  Pardners  for  a  kerdrille !  "  cried  Jake. 

Sizzum  led  off  the  ball  with  one  of  the  Blow- 
salinds  before  mentioned.  Dancmg  is  enjoined 
in  the  Latter-Day  Church.  They  cite  Jephthah's 
daughter  and  David  dancing  by  the  ark  as  good 
Scriptural  authority  for  the  custom. 

"  Rio-ht  and  left ! "  cried  Jake  Shamberlain. 
"  Forrud  the  gent !  The  lady  forrud  !  Forrud 
the  hull  squad.  Jerk  pardners !  Scrape  away, 
Bottery !     Kick  out  and  no  walkin' !     Prance  in, 


JAKE   SHMIBERLAIN'S  BALL.  141 

gals !  Lamm  ahead,  boys !  Time,  Time  !  All 
hands  round !  Catch  a  gal  and  spin  her !  Well, 
that  was  jest  as  harnsome  a  kerdrille  as  ever  I 
seed." 

And  so  on  with  another  quadrille,  minuet, 
and  quadrille  again.  But  the  subsequent  dances 
were  not  so  orderly  as  the  first.  Filled  with  noise 
and  romping,  they  frequently  ended  in  wild  dis- 
order. The  figures  tangled  themselves  into  a 
labyrinth,  and  the  music,  drowned  by  the  tumult, 
ceased  to  be  a  clew  of  escape.  Nor  could  Jake's 
voice,  half  suffocated  by  the  dust,  be  heard  above 
the  din,  until,  having  hushed  his  orchestra,  he 
had  called  "  Halt ! "  a  dozen  times. 

In  the  intervals  between  the  dances  we  observed 
Larrap  distributing  whiskey  to  the  better  class  of 
the  emigrants.  Sizzum  did  not  disdain  to  accept 
the  hospitality  of  the  stranger.  Old  Bridger's 
liquid  stores,  now  Mormon  property,  and  for  sale 
at  the  price  of  Johannisberger,  diminished  fast 
on  this  festal  night. 

"  Shall  we  go  ?  "  whispered  I  to  Brent,  after  a 
while. 

"  Not  quite  yet.  Old  Bottery  announces  that 
he  is  going  to  play  a  polka.  Fancy  a  polka  here ! 
That  will  engage  Sizzum  after  his  potations,  so 
that  he  will  forget  our  friends." 

"  Now,  brethren  and  samts,"  cried  Jake,  "  at- 
tention for  the  polky !     Pipe  up,  Bottery !  " 


142  JOHN  BRENT. 

Evidently  not  the  first  time  that  this  Strauss  of 
some  Manchester  casino  had  played  the  very  rol- 
licking polka  he  now  rattled  off  from  his  strings. 
How  queerly  ignoble  those  strident  notes  sounded 
in  the  silence  of  night  in  the  great  wilderness. 
For  loud  as  was  the  uproar  in  the  court,  over- 
head were  the  stars,  quiet  and  amazed,  and,  with- 
out, the  great,  still  prairie  protested  against  the 
discordant  tumult.  Some  barbaric  harmony,  wild 
and  thrilling,  poured  forth  from  strong-lunged 
brass,  or  a  strain  like  that  of  the  horns  in  Der 
Freischutz,  would  have  chimed  with  the  spirit  of 
the  desert.  But  Bottery's  mean  twang  suited 
better  the  bastard  civilization  that  had  invaded 
this  station  of  the  banished  pioneer. 

At  the  sound  of  the  creaking  polka,  a  youth, 
pale  and  unwholesome  as  a  tailor's  apprentice, 
led  out  a  sister  saint.  Others  followed.  Some 
danced  teetotum  fashion.  Others  bounced  clum- 
sily about.  Around  them  all  stood  an  applaud- 
ing circle.  The  fiddles  scraped ;  the  dust  flew. 
Sizzum  and  Larrap,  two  bad  elements  in  combi- 
nation, stood  together,  cheering  the  dancers. 

"  Come,"  said  Brent,  "  let  us  get  into  purer 
air  and  among  nobler  creatures.  How  little  we 
thought,"  he  continued,  "  when  we  were  speak- 
ing of  such  scenes  and  people  as  we  have  just 
left  as  a  possible  background,  what  figures  would 
stand  in  the  foreground  !  " 


JAKE   SHAMBERLAIN'S   BALL.  143 

"I  am  glad  to  be  out  of  that  noisy  rabble," 
said  I,  as  we  passed  from  the  gate.  "  The  stars 
seem  to  look  disdainfully  on  them.  I  cannot  be 
entertained  by  that  low  comedy,  with  tragedy 
sitting  beside  our  friends'  wagon." 

"  The  stars,"  said  Brent,  bitterly,  "  are  cold 
and  cruel  as  destiny.  There  is  heaven  overhead, 
pretending  to  be  calming  and  benignant,  and  giv- 
ing no  help,  while  I  am  thinking  in  agony  what 
can  be  done  to  save  from  any  touch  of  shame  or 
deeper  sorrow  that  noble  daughter." 

"  It  is  a  fine  night  for  a  gallop,"  I  repeated. 

"  There  they  are.  We  must  keep  them  out  of 
the  fort.  Wade.  If  you  love  me,  detain  the  old 
man  in  talk  for  half  an  hour." 

"  Certainly ;  half  a  century,  if  it  will  do  any 
good." 

Mr.  Clitheroe  and  his  daughter  were  walking 
slowly  toward  the  fort.  He  appealed  to  us  as 
we  approached. 

"  I  am  urging  my  daughter  to  join  in  the 
amusements  of  the  evening,"  said  he.  "  You 
know,  my  dear,  that  many  of  our  old  Lancashire 
neighbors  still  would  be  pleased  to  see  you  a 
lady  patroness  of  their  innocent  sports,  and  lend- 
ing your  countenance  to  their  healthy  hilarity. 
A  little  gaycty  will  do  you  good,  I  am  sure.  This 
ball  may  not  be  elegant ;  but  it  will  be  cheerful, 
and  of   course  conducted  with  great  propriety, 


144  JOHN   BRENT. 

since  Brother  Sizzum  is  present.  I  am  afraid  he 
will  miss  us,  and  be  offended.  That  must  not 
be,  Ellen  dear.  "We  must  not  offend  Brother  Siz- 
zum in  any  way  whatever.  We  must  consider 
that  his  wishes  are  sovereign ;  for  is  he  not  the 
chosen  apostle  ? " 

Brent  and  I  could  both  have  wept  to  hear  this 
crazy,  senile  stuff. 

"  Pray,  father  dear,"  said  Miss  Clitheroe,  "  do 
not  insist  upon  it.  We  shall  both  be  wearied 
out,  if  we  are  up  late  after  our  day's  march." 

It  was  clearly  out  of  tenderness  to  him  that 
she  avoided  the  real  objections  she  must  have  to 
6uch  a  scene. 

"  It  is  quite  too  noisy  and  dusty  for  Miss  Cli- 
theroe in  the  fort,"  said  I,  and  I  took  his  arm. 
"  Come,  sir,  let  us  walk  about  and  have  a  chat 
in  the  open  air." 

I  led  him  off,  poor  old  gentleman,  facile  un- 
der my  resolute  control.  All  he  had  long  ago 
needed  was  a  firm  man  friend  to  take  him  in 
hand  and  be  his  despot ;  but  the  weaker  he  was, 
the  less  he  could  be  subject  to  his  daughter. 
It  is  the  feeble,  unmascidine  men  who  fight 
most  petulantly  against  the  influence  and  power 
of  women. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Wade,"  said  he,  "perhaps  you  are 
right.  We  have  only  to  fancy  this  the  terrace 
outside  the  chateau,  and  it  is  as  much  according 


JAKE   SHAMBEELAm'S   BALL.  145 

to  rule  to  promenade  here,  as  to  stifle  in  the  ball- 
room. You  are  very  kind,  gentlemen,  both,  to 
prefer  our  society  to  the  entertainment  inside. 
Certainly  Brother  Bottery's  violin  is  not  like  one 
of  our  modern  bands ;  but  when  I  was  your  age 
I  could  dance  to  anything  and  anywhere.  I 
suppose  young  men  see  so  much  more  of  the 
world  now,  that  they  outgrow  those  fancies 
sooner." 

So  we  walked  on,  away  from  the  harsh  sounds 
of  the  ball.  Brent  dropped  behind,  talking  ear- 
nestly with  the  lady.  How  sibylline  she  looked 
in  that  dim  starlight!  How  Cassandra-like, — 
as  one  dreams  that  heroic  and  unflinching  proph- 
etess of  ills  unheeded  or  disdained  ! 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


HUGH  CLITHEEOE. 


Mr.  Clitheroe  grew  more  and  more  communi- 
cative, as  we  wandered  about  over  the  open.  I 
drew  from  liim,  or  ratlier,  witli  few  words  of 
guidance  now  and  then,  let  liim  impart,  his 
history.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  he  had  an  ex- 
planation to  offer.  Men  whose  life  has  been  er- 
ror and  catastrophe  rarely  have  much  pride  of 
reticence.  Whatever  friendly  person  will  hear 
their  apology  can  hear  it.  That  form  of  more 
lamentable  error  called  Guilt  is  shyer  of  the 
confessional;  but  it  also  feels  its  need  of  tell- 
ing to  brother  man  why  it  was  born  in  the  heart 
in  the  form  of  some  small  sin. 

Again  Mr.  Clitheroe  talked  of  the  scenes  of 
his  youhh  ind  prosperity.  He  "  b!i(r»Lled  of  green 
fields,"  and  parks,  and  great  country-houses,  and 
rural  life.  So  he  went  on  to  talk  of  himself,  and, 
leaving  certain  blanks,  which  I  afterward  found 
the  means  of  filling,  told  me  his  story.  A  sad 
story  !  A  pitiful  story  !  Sadder  and  more  pitiful 
to  me  because  a  filial  feeling  toward  this  hapless 


HUGH    CLITHEROE.  147 

gentlemau  was  all  the  while  growmg  stronger  in 
my  heart.  I  have  already  said  that  I  was  father- 
less from  infancy.  This  has  left  a  gTeat  want  in 
my  life.  I  cannot  find  complete  compensation 
for  the  lack  of  a  father's  love  in  my  premature 
manhood  and  my  toughening  against  the  world 
too  young.  I  yearned  greatly  toward  the  feeble 
old  man,  my  companion  in  that  night  walk  on 
the  plain  of  Fort  Bridger.  I  longed  to  do  by 
him  the  duties  of  sonship  ;  as,  indeed,  having  no 
such  duties,  I  have  often  longed  when  I  found 
age  weak  and  weary.  And  as  I  began  to  feel 
son-like  toward  the  father,  a  sentiment  simply 
brotherly  took  its  place  in  my  heart  for  the 
daughter,  whose  love  my  friend,  I  believe,  was 
seeking. 

A  sad  history  was  Mr.  Clitheroe's.  He  was  a 
prosperous  gentleman  once,  of  one  of  the  ancient 
families  of  his  country. 

"  We  belong,"  he  said,  "  to  the  oldest  gentry 
of  England.  We  have  been  living  at  Clitheroe 
Hall,  and  where  the  Hall  now  stands,  for  cen- 
turies. Our  family  history  goes  back  into  the 
pre-historic  times.  We  have  never  been  very 
famous ;  we  have  always  sustained  our  dignity. 
We  might  have  had  a  dozen  peerages ;  but  we 
were  too  much  on  the  side  of  liberty,  of  free 
speech  and  free  thought,  to  act  with  the  powers 
that  be. 


148  JOHN   BEENT. 

"  There  was  never  a  time,  until  my  day,  when 
one  of  us  was  not  in  Parliament  for  Clitheroe 
Clitheroe  had  two  members,  and  one  of  the  old 
family  that  gave  its  name  to  the  town,  and  got 
for  it  its  franchises,  was  always  chosen  without 
contest. 

"  It  is  a  lovely  region,  sir,  where  the  town,  of 
Clitheroe  and  the  old  manor-house  of  my  family 
stand,  —  the  fairest  part  of  Lancashire.  If  you 
have  only  seen,  as  you  say,  the  flat  country 
about  Liverpool  and  Manchester,  you  do  not 
know  at  all  what  Lancashire  can  do  in  scenery. 
Why,  there  is  Pendle  Hill,  —  it  might  better  be 
called  a  mountain,  —  Pendle  Hill  rises  almost  at 
my  door-step,  at  the  door  of  Clitheroe  Hall. 
Pendle  Hill,  sir,  is  eighteen  hundred  and  odd 
feet  high.  And  a  beautiful  hill  it  is.  I  talked 
of  the  "Wind  River  Mountams  this  afternoon  ; 
they  are  very  fine ;  but  I  never  should  have 
learned  to  love  heights,  if  my  boyhood  had  not 
been  trained  by  the  presence  of  Pendle  Hill. 

"  And  there  is  the  Ribble,  too.  A  lovely  river, 
coming  from  the  hills ;  —  such  a  stream  as  I  have 
not  seen  on  this  continent.  I  do  not  wish  to 
make  harsh  comparisons,  but  your  Mississippi 
and  Missouri  are  more  like  ditches  than  rivers, 
and  as  to  the  Platte,  why,  sir,  it  seems  to  me 
no  better  than  a  chain  of  mud-pools.  But  the 
Ribble  is  quite  another  thing.     I  suppose  I  love 


HUGH   CLITHEROE.  149 

it  more  because  I  have  dabbled  in  it  a  boy,  and 
bathed  in  it  a  man,  and  have  seen  it  flow  on 
always  a  friend,  whether  I  was  rich  or  poor. 
Nature,  sir,  does  not  look  coldly  on  a  poor  man, 
as  humanity  does.  The  river  Ribble  and  Pen- 
die  Hill  have  been  faithful  to  me,  —  they  and  my 
dear  Ellen,  always. 

"  Perhaps  I  tire  you  with  this  chat,"  he  said. 

"  0  no ! "  replied  I.  "  I  should  be  a  poor 
American  if  I  did  not  love  to  hear  of  Mother 
England  everywhere  and  always." 

"  I  almost  fear  to  talk  about  home  —  our  old 
home,  I  mean  —  to  my  dear  child.  She  might 
grow  a  little  homesick,  you  know.  And  how 
could  she  understand,  so  young  and'  a  woman 
too,  that  duty  makes  exile  needful  ?  Of  course 
I  do  not  mean  to  suggest  that  we  deem  our  new 
home  in  the  Promised  Land  an  exile." 

And  here  he  again  gave  the  same  anxious  look 
I  had  before  observed;  as  if  he  dreaded  that 
I  had  the  power  to  dissolve  an  unsubstantial 
illusion. 

"  I  wish  I  had  thought,"  he  continued,  "  to 
show  you,  when  you  were  at  tea,  a  picture  of 
Clitheroe  Hall  I  have.  It  is  my  daughter  Ellen's 
work.  She  has  a  genius  for  art,  really  a  genius. 
We  have  been  hving  in  a  cottage  near  there, 
where  she  could  see  the  Hall  from  her  window,  — 
dear  old  place  !  —  and  she  has  made  a  capital 
drawing  of  it." 


150  JOHN   BEENT. 

"  You  had  left  it?"  I  asked.  He  liad  paused, 
commanded  by  his  melancholy  recollections. 

"  0  yes  !  Did  I  not  tell  you  about  my  losses  1 
I  was  a  rich  man  and  prosperous  once.  I  kept 
open  house,  sir,  in  my  wife's  lifetime.  She  was 
a  great  beauty.  My  dear  Ellen  is  like  her,  but 
she  has  no  beauty,  —  a  good  girl  and  daughter, 
though,  like  all  young  people,  she  has  a  juvenile 
wish  to  govern,  —  but  no  beauty.  Perhaps  she 
will  grow  handsome  when  we  grow  rich  again." 

"  Few  women  are  so  attractive  as  Miss  Cli- 
theroe,"  I  said,  baldly  enough. 

"  I  have  tried  to  be  a  good  father  to  her,  sir. 
She  should  have  had  diamonds  and  pearls,  and 
everything  that  young  ladies  want,  if  I  had  suc- 
ceeded. But  you  ought  to  have  seen  Clitheroe 
Hall,  sir,  in  its  best  days.  Such  oaks  as  I  had 
in  my  park  !  One  of  those  oaks  is  noticed  in 
Evelyn's  Silva.  One  day,  a  great  many  years 
ago,  I  found  a  young  man  sitting  under  that 
oak  writing  verses.  I  was  hospitable  to  him,  and 
gave  him  luncheon,  which  he  ate  with  very  good 
appetite,  if  he  was  a  poet.  I  did  not  ask  his 
name  ;  but  not  three  months  after  I  received 
a  volume  of  poems,  with  a  sonnet  among  them, 
really  very  well  done,  very  well  done  indeed, 
inscribed  to  the  Clitheroe  Oak.  The  volume, 
sir,  was  by  Mr.  Wordsworth,  quite  one  of  our 
best  poets,  in  his  way,  the  founder  of  a  new 
school." 


HUGH   CLITHEROE.  151 

''  A  very  pleasant  incident !  " 

•'  Yes  indeed.  The  poet  was  fortunate,  was 
lie  not  ?  But  if  you  are  fond  of  pictures,  I 
should  have  liked  to  show  you  my  Vandykes. 
We  had  the  famous  Clitheroe  Beauty,  an  earl's 
daughter,  maid  of  honor  to  Queen  Henrietta 
Maria.  She  chose  plain  Hugh  Clitheroe  before 
all  the  noblemen  of  the  court ;  —  we  Clitheroes 
have  always  been  fortunate  in  that  way.  I  said 
plain  Hugh,  but  he  was  as  handsome  a  cavalier 
as  ever  wore  rapier.  He  might  have  been  an 
earl  himself,  but  he  took  the  part  of  liberty,  and 
was  killed  on  the  Parliament  side  at  Edgemoor. 
I  had  his  portrait  too,  a  Vandyke,  and  one  of 
the  best  pictures  he  ever  painted,  as  I  believe  is 
agreed  by  connoisseurs.  You  should  have  seen 
the  white  horse,  sir,  in  that  picture,  —  full  of 
gentleness  and  spirit,  and  worthy  the  handsome 
cavalier  just  ready  to  mount  him." 

As  the  old  gentleman  talked  of  his  heroic 
ancestor,  a  name  not  unknown  to  history,  he 
revived  a  httle,  and  I  saw  an  evanescent  look 
of  his  daughter's  vigor  in  his  eye.  It  faded 
instantly  ;  he  sighed,  and  went  on. 

"I  should  almost  have  liked  to  live  in  those 
days.  It  is  easier  to  die  for  a  holy  cause  than 
to  find  one's  way  along  through  life.  I  have 
found  it  pretty  hard,  sir,  —  pretty  hard,  —  and 
I  hope  my  day  of  peace  is  nearly  come." 


152  JOKN   BEENT. 

How  could  I  shatter  his  delusion,  and  thunder 
in  his  ear  that  this  hope  was  a  lie  ? 

"  I  had  a  happy  time  of  it,"  he  continued, 
"  till  after  my  Ellen's  birth,  and  I  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  that.  I  had  my  dear  wife  and  hosts 
of  friends, —  so  I  thought  them.  To  be  sure 
I  spent  too  much  money,  and  sometimes  had 
rather  too  gay  an  evening  over  the  claret  at 
my  old  oak  dining-table.  But  that  was  harm- 
less pleasure,  sir.  I  was  always  a  kind  landlord. 
I  never  could  turn  out  a  tenant  nor  arrest  a 
poacher.  I  suppose  I  was  too  kind.  I  might 
better  have  saved  some  of  the  money  I  gave  to 
my  people  in  beef  and  beer  on  holidays.  But 
it  made  them  happy.  I  like  to  see  everybody 
happy.  That  was  my  chief  pleasure.  The  peo- 
ple were  very  poor  in  England  then,  sir,  —  not 
that  they  are  not  poor  now,  —  and  I  used  to 
be  very  glad  when  a  good  old  English  holiday, 
or  a  birthday,  gave  me  a  chance  to  give  them  a 
little  festival." 

I  could  imagine  him  the  gentle,  genial  host. 
Fate  should  have  left  him  there  in  the  old 
hall,  dispensing  frank  hospitality  all  his  sunny 
days  and  bland  seasons  through,  lunching  young 
poets,  and  showing  his  Vandykes  with  proper 
pride  to  strangers.  His  story  carried  truth  on 
its  face.  In  fact,  the  man  was  all  the  while  an 
illustration  of  his  own  tale.  Every  tone  and 
phrase  convicted  him  of  his  own  character. 


HUGH   CLITHEROE.  153 

"  It  sometimes  makes  me  a  little  melanclioly," 
he  continued,  "  to  speak  of  those  happy  days. 
Not  that  I  regret  the  result  I  have  at  last  at- 
tained !  Ah,  no  !  But  the  process  was  a  hard 
one.  I  have  suffered,  sir,  suffered  greatly  on  my 
way  to  the  peace  and  confidence  I  have  attained." 

"  You  have  attained  these  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Yes  ;  thank  God  and  this  Latter-Day  reve- 
lation of  his  truth !  I  used  to  think  rather 
carelessly  of  religion  in  those  times.  I  suppose 
it  is  only  the  contact  with  sin  and  sorrow  that 
teaches  a  man  to  look  from  the  transitory  to 
the  eternal.  Shade  makes  light  precious,  as  an 
artist  would  say.  I  was  brought  up,  you  know, 
sir,  in  the  Church  of  England ;  but  when  I  be- 
gan to  think,  its  formalism  wearied  me.  I  could 
not  understand  what  seemed  to  me  then  the 
complex  machinery  of  its  theology.  I  thought, 
sir,  as  no  doubt  many  people  of  the  poetic  tem- 
perament and  little  experience  think,  that  God 
deals  with  men  without  go-betweens;  that  ho 
acts  directly  on  the  character  by  the  facts  of 
nature  and  the  thoughts  in  every  soul.  It  was 
not  until  I  grew  old  and  sad  that  I  began  to 
feel  the  need  of  something  distinct  and  tangi- 
ble to  rest  my  faith  upon,  and  even  then,  sir, 
I  was  sceptical  of  the  need  of  revelations  and 
Messiahs  and  miracles,  until  I  learnt  througn 
the  testimony  of  living  witnesses  —  yes,  of  living 

7* 


154  JOHN  BEENT. 

witnesses  —  that  such  things  have  come  in  the 
Latter  Day.  Yes,  sir,  the  facts  of  what  you  call 
Mormonism,  its  miracles,  its  revelations,  which 
do  not  cease,  and  its  new  Messiah,  have  proved 
to  me  the  necessity  of  other  like  supernatural 
systems  in  the  past,  and  given  me  faith  in  their 
evidences,  which  before  seemed  scanty." 

"  Ah  !  old  Mother  Church  of  England  !  "  I 
thought,  "  could  you  do  no  better  by  your  son 
than  this  ?  Whose  fault  is  this  credulity  ?  How 
is  it  that  he  needs  phenomena  to  give  him  faith 
in  truth?" 

"  But  I  have  not  told  you,"  the  old  gentle- 
man went  on,  "  about  my  disasters.  Perhaps 
you  are  getting  tired  of  my  prattle,  sir,  my  old 
man's  talk.  I  am  really  not  so  very  old,  if 
my  hair  is  thin,  and  my  beard  gray,  —  barely 
fifty,  and  after  this  journey  I  expect  to  be  quite 
a  boy  again.  I  suppose  you  were  surprised  this 
afternoon,  when  I  spoke  of  having  worked  in  a 
coal-mine,  were  you  not  ?  " 

The  old  man  seemed  to  have  some  little  pride 
in  this  singularity  of  fortune.  I  expressed  the 
proper  interest  in  such  a  change  of  destiny. 

"  You  shall  hear  how  it  happened,"  he  said. 
"  You  remember,  —  no,  you  are  too  young  to 
remember,  but  you  have  heard  how  we  all  went 
mad  about  mills  and  mines  in  Lancashire  some 
twenty  years  ago." 


HUGH   CLITHEROE.  155 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  it  was  then  that  steam  and 
cotton  began  to  understand  each  other,  and  coal 
and  negroes  became  important." 

"  What  a  panic  of  speculation  we  all  rushed 
into  in  Lancashire ! "  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"  We  all  felt,  we  gentlemen,  that  we  were  mere 
idlers,  not  doing  our  duty,  as  England  expects 
every  man  to  do,  unless  we  were  building  chim- 
neys, or  digging  pits.  We  were  all  either  grub- 
bing down  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  coal, 
or  rearing  great  chimneys  up  in  the  air  to  burn 
it.  I  really  think  most  of  us  began  to  like 
smoke  better  than  blue  sky  ;  certainly  it  tasted 
sweeter  to  us  than  our  good  old  English  fog. 

"  Well,  sir,"  continued  he,  "  I  was  like  my 
neighbors.  I  must  dabble  in  milling  and  min- 
ing. I  was  willing  to  be  richer.  Lideed,  as  soon 
as  I  began  to  speculate,  I  thought  myself  richer. 
I  spent  more  money.  I  went  deeper  uito  my 
operations.  One  can  throw  a  great  treasure  into 
a  coal-mine  without  seeing  any  return,  and  can 
send  a  great  volume  of  smoke  up  a  chimney  be- 
fore the  mill  begins  to  pay.  It  is  an  old  story. 
I  will  not  tire  you  with  it.  I  was  all  at  once  a 
ruined  man." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  looked  about  the 
dim,  star-lit  prairie,  with  the  white  wagons  and 
the  low  fort  in  the  distance. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  in  the  careless,  airy  manner 


156  JOHN  BRENT. 

which  seemed  his  characteristic  one,  "  if  I  had 
not  been  ruined,  I  should  liave  stayed  stupidly  at 
home,  and  never  worked  in  a  coal-mine,  or  trav 
elled  on  the  plains,  or  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing you  and  your  friend  here.  It  is  all  fresh  and 
novel.  If  it  were  not  for  my  daughter  and  my 
duties  to  the  church,  I  should  take  my  adven- 
tures as  lightly  as  you  do  when  your  gun  misses 
fire  and  you  lose  a  dinner. 

"  The  thing  that  troubled  me  most  at  the  time 
of  my  disasters,"  he  resumed,  "was  being  de- 
feated for  Parliament.  There  had  always  been  a 
Clitheroe  there.  When  my  father  died,  I  took 
his  seat.  I  used  to  spend  freely  on  elections  ;  but 
I  thought  they  sent  me  becaiise  they  liked  me,  or 
for  love  of  the  old  name.  When  I  lost  my  for- 
tune there  came  a  snob,  sir,  and  stood  against  me. 
He  accused  me  of  being  a  free-thinker,  —  as  if 
the  Clitheroes  had  not  always  been  liberal !  He 
got  up  a  cry,  and  bought  votes.  My  own  tenants, 
my  old  tenants,  whom  I  had  feasted  out  of  pure 
good-will  a  hundred  times,  turned  against  me. 
I  lost  my  election  and  my  last  shilling. 

"  It  was  just  then,  sir,  that  my  dear  wife  died, 
and  my  dear  Ellen  was  born." 

He  turned  sadly  around  to  look  at  his  daugh- 
ter. She  was  walking  at  some  distance  with 
Brent.  The  earnest  murmur  of  their  voices 
came  to  us  through  the  stillness.  I  felt  what  my 
friend  must  be  saying  in  that  pleading  tone. 


HUGH    CLITHEROE.  157 

"  Everything  went  disastrously  with  me,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Clitheroe.  "I  tried  to  recover  my 
fortunes,  fairly  and  honestly,  but  it  was  too  late. 
My  creditors  took  the  old  Hall.  Hugh  Clitheroe 
in  Harry  the  Eighth's  time  built  it,  on  land 
where  the  family  had  lived  from  before  Egbert. 
I  lost  it,  sir.  The  family  came  to  an  end  with 
me.  I  found  sheriff's  officers  making  beer  rings 
on  my  old  oak  dining-table.  The  Vandykes 
went.  Hugh  of  Cromwell's  days  was  divorced 
from  his  wife,  the  Beauty.  I  tried  to  keep  them 
together;  but  scrubs  bought  them,  and  stuck 
them  up  in  their  vulgar  parlors.  Sorry  busi- 
ness !     Sorry  business  !  " 

"  You  kept  a  brave  heart  through  it  all." 

"  Yes,  until  they  accused  me  of  dishonesty. 
That  I  felt  bitterly.  And  everybody  gave  me 
the  cold  shoulder.  I  could  get  nothing  to  do. 
There  is  not  much  that  a  broken-down  gentle- 
man can  do ;  but  no  one  would  trust  me.  I 
grew  poorer  than  you  can  conceive.  I  lost  all 
heart.  Men  are  poor  creatures,  —  as  a  desolate 
man  finds." 

"Not  all,  I  hope,"  was  my  protest. 

"  Truly  not  all.  But  the  friends  of  prosperity 
are  birds  that  come  to  be  fed,  and  fly  away  when 
the  crumbs  give  out.  All  are  not  base  and  time- 
serving ;  but  men  are  busy  and  careless,  and 
fancy  that  others  can  always  take  care  of  them- 


158  JOHN  BEENT. 

selves.  I  could  not  beg,  sir ;  but  it  came  near 
starvation  tome  in  Christian  England,  —  to  me 
and  my  young  daughter,  within  a  year  after  my 
misfortunes.  Perhaps  I  was  over-proud  or  over- 
vain  ;  but  I  grew  tired  of  the  slights  of  people 
that  had  known  me  in  my  better  days,  and  now 
dodged  me  because  I  was  shabby  and  poor.  I 
wanted  to  get  out  of  sight  of  the  ungrateful, 
ungracious  world.  The  blue  sky  grew  hateful  to 
me.  I  must  live,  or,  if  life  was  nothing  to  me, 
my  daughter  must  not  starve,  I  had  a  choice  of 
factory  or  coal-mine  to  hide  myself  in.  I  sank 
into  a  coal-mine." 

"  A  strange  contrast !  "  I  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  am  trying  to  make  the  whole  history  less 
dreamy.  Each  seems  unreal,  —  my  luxurious 
life  at  Clitlieroe  Hall,  and  my  troglodyte  life 
down  in  the  coal-pit.  Idler  and  slave ;  either 
extreme  had  its  own  special  unhappiuess  and 
unhealthiness." 

How  much  wisdom  there  was  in  the  weakness 
of  the  old  man's  character  !  The  more  I  talked 
with  him,  the  more  pitiable  seemed  his  destiny. 
"0  John  Brent!"  I  groaned  in  my  heart,  "plead 
with  the  daughter  as  man  never  pleaded  before. 
We  must  save  them  from  the  dismal  fate  before 
them.  And  if  she  cannot  master  her  father,  and 
you,  John  Brent,  cannot  master  her,  there  is  no 
hope." 


HUGH   CLITHEEOE.  159 

My  friend  made  no  sign  that  he  was  ready  to 
close  his  interview  with  the  lady.  The  noise  of 
the  ball  still  came  to  us  with  the  puffs  of  the 
evening  wind.  I  prompted  the  communicative 
old  gentleman  to  renew  his  story. 

"  I  have  seen  the  interior  of  some  of  the  Lan- 
cashire mines  ;  I  have  read  the  Blue  Book  upon 
them,"  I  said.  "  You  must  have  been  in  a 
rough  place,  with  company  as  rough." 

"  It  was  hard  for  a  man  of  delicate  nurture. 
But  the  men  liked  me.  They  were  not  brutes, — 
not  all,  —  if  they  were  roughs.  Brutes  get  away 
from  places  where  hard  work  is  done.  My  mates 
down  in  the  mine  made  it  easy  for  me.  They 
called  me  Gentleman  Hugh.  I  was  rather 
proud,  sir,  I  confess,  to  find  myself  liked  and 
respected  for  what  I  was,  not  for  what  I  had.  It 
was  a  hard  life  and  a  rough  life ;  but  it  was  an 
honest  life,  and  my  child  was  too  young  to  miss 
what  her  birth  entitled  her  to. 

"  It  was  in  our  mine  that  I  first  knew  of  the 
Latter-Day  Church.  For  years  I  had  drudged 
there,  and  never  thought,  or  in  fact,  for  myself, 
much  cared,  to  come  out.  I  had  tried  the  pleas- 
ures and  friendships  of  gay  life ;  they  had  noth- 
ing new  or  good  to  give  me.  For  years  I  had 
toiled,  when  the  first  apostle  came  out  and  began 
to  make  proselytes  to  the  faith  in  our  country. 
They  have  never  disdained   the   mean   and  the 


160  JOHN  BRENT. 

lowly.  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  we  in  our  coal-pit, 
and  our  brothers  in  the  factories,  listened  to  apos- 
tles who  came  across  seas  and  labored  amons:  us 
as  if  they  loved  our  souls.  The  false  religions 
and  outgrown  religions  left  us  in  the  dark ;  but 
the  true  light  came  to  us.  My  mates  in  the 
Lancashire  mine  joined  the  church  by  hundreds. 
I  was  still  blind  and  careless.  It  was  not  until 
long  afterwards  that  the  time  for  my  conversion 
came. 

"  As  my  daughter  grew  up,  I  felt  that  I  ought 
to  be  by  her.  I  had  worked  a  long  time  in  the 
mine,  and  was  known  to  have  some  education. 
The  company  gave  me  a  clerkship  in  their  office, 
and  there  I  drudged  again  for  years,  asking  no 
help  or  favor.  It  was  in  another  part  of  the 
county  from  my  old  residence,  where  nobody 
knew  me.  My  dear  child,  —  she  has  always  been 
a  good  child  to  me,  except  that  she  sometimes 
wishes  to  rule  a  little  too  much,  —  my  dear  Ellen 
became  almost  a  woman,  and  all  I  lacked  was 
the  means  of  giving  her  the  position  of  her  rank. 
Education  she  got  herself.  We  were  not  un- 
happy, she  and  I  together,  lonely  as  we  might  be, 
and  out  of  place." 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  of  liim- 
self  in  such  a  cheerful,  healthy  way,  and  showed 
that  he  had  borne  such  a  brave  heart  through  his 
troubles,  that   I   began    to   puzzle   myself  what 


HUGH   CLITHEROE.  161 

could  have  again  changed  his  character,  and 
made  of  him  the  weakHng  I  had  recognized  in 
the  interview  with  Sizzum. 

" It  is  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said,  "to  listen  to 
a  garrulous  old  fellow.  Your  sympathy  is  very 
pleasant ;  but  I  must  not  test  it  too  far.  I  will 
end  my  long  story  presently. 

"  I  supposed  myself  entirely  forgotten,  as  I 
was  quite  wilhng  to  be.  By  and  by  I  was  re- 
membered and  sought.  A  far-away  kinsman 
had  left  me  a  legacy.  It  was  enough  for  a 
quiet  subsistence  for  us  two,  for  Ellen  and  me. 
I  returned  to  the  neighborhood  of  my  old  home. 
I  found  a  little  cottage  on  the  banks  of  Kibble, 
witliin  sight  of  my  old  fiiend,  Pendle  Hill. 
There  we  lived." 

From  this  point  Mr.  Clitheroe's  manner  totally 
changed.  His  voice  grew  peevish  and  complain- 
ing. All  the  manly  feeling  he  had  showed  in 
briefly  describing  his  day-laborer's  hfe  passed 
away.  He  detailed  to  me  how  the  new  proprie- 
tor at  Clitheroe  Hall  patronized  him  insufferably  ; 
how  his  old  neighbors  turned  up  their  noses  at 
him,  and  msulted  him  by  condescension.  How 
miserable  he  found  it  to  cramp  himself  and  save 
shillings  in  a  cottage,  with  the  house  in  sight 
where  he  had  lavished  pounds  as  Lord  of  the 
Manor !  How  he  longed  to  have  his  daughter  as 
well  dressed  as  any  of  the  young  ladies  about, 


162  JOHN  BEENT. 

lier  inferiors  in  blood, — for  no  one  there  could 
rival  the  Clitheroes'  lineage.  How  he  wished 
himself  back  in  his  mine,  in  his  industrious 
clerkship,  and  how  time  hung  drearily  on  his 
hands,  with  nothing  to  do  except  dream  of  by- 
gone glories.  I  saw  that  he  had  sighed  to  be  a 
great  man  again,  and  had  a  morbid  sense  of  his 
insignificance,  and  that  this  had  made  him 
touchy,  and  alienated  well-meaning  people  about 
him.  He  spoke  with  some  triumph  of  his  argu- 
ments with  the  rector  of  his  parish,  who  endeav- 
ored to  check  him  when  he  lent  what  injfluence 
he  had,  as  a  gentleman,  to  get  the  Mormons  a 
hearing  about  Clitheroe.  He  did  not,  as  he  said, 
as  yet  feel  any  great  interest  in  their  doctrines ; 
but  he  remembered  them  with  good-will  from  his 
coal-pit  days,  and  whenever  an  emissary  of  the 
faith  came  by,  he  always  found  a  friend  in  Hugh 
Clitheroe.  They  had  evidently  flattered  him. 
It  was  rare,  of  course,  to  find  a  protector  among 
the  gentry,  and  they  made  the  most  of  the 
chance. 

Poor  old  man !  I  could  trace  the  progress 
of  his  disappointment,  and  his  final  fall  into  that 
miserable  superstition.  He  had  been  a  free-think- 
er ;  never  industrious  or  self-possessed  enough 
to  become  a  fundamental  thinker.  No  man  can 
stand  long  on  nothing,  —  he  must  think  out  a 
religion,  or  accept  a  theology.      Now  that  busy 


HUGH   CLITHEROE.  163 

days  were  over,  and  careless  youth  gone  by, 
Mr.  Clitberoe  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  was  ready 
to  listen  to  any  scheme  which  promised  peace. 
If  a  Jesuit  had  happened  to  find  him  at  this 
period,  Rome  would  have  got  a  recruit  with- 
out difficulty.  The  Pope  and  Brigham  Young 
are  the  rival  bidders  for  such  weaklings  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  Brigham  with  polygamy 
is  the  complement  of  Fio  with  cehbacy. 

Instead  of  Jesuit,  Sizzum  arrived.  Sizzum 
was  far  abler  than  any  of  his  Mormon  com- 
peers. He  was  proselyting  about  Clitheroe, 
where  he  found  it  not  difficult  to  persuade  the 
poor  slaves  up  in  the  mill  and  down  in  the 
mine  to  accept  a  faith  that  offered  at  once  a 
broad  range  on  earth,  and,  in  good  time,  a  high 
seat  in  heaven. 

Sizzum  was  the  guest  of  the  discontented  and 
decayed  gentleman.  He  saw  the  opportunity. 
There  was  an  old  name  and  a  man  of  gentle 
birth  to  rally  followers  about.  It  would  be  a 
triumph  for  the  Latter-Day  Saints  to  march 
away  from  Clitheroe,  a  thousand  strong,  headed 
by  the  representative  of  the  family  who  named 
the  place,  and  had  once  been  in  Parliament  foi 
it.  Here  was  a  proselyte  in  a  class  which  no 
Mormon  had  dreamed  of  approaching.  Here 
too  was  some  little  property.  And  here  was 
a  beautiful  daughter. 


164  JOHN   BRENT. 

I  could  divine  the  astute  Sizzum's  method 
and  success  with  his  victim,  enfeebled  in  body 
and  spirit.  How,  seeing  his  need  of  something 
final  and  authoritative  in  religion,  Sizzum  showed 
him  the  immanence  of  inspiration  in  his  church. 
How  he  threatened  him  with  wrath  to  come, 
unless  he  was  gathered  from  among  the  Gen- 
tiles, How  he  persuaded  him  that  a  man  of  his 
education  and  station  would  be  greater  among 
the  saints  than  ever  in  his  best  days  in  Eng- 
land. How  he  touched  the  old  man's  enthu- 
siasm with  tales  of  caravan  life,  with  the  dust 
of  the  desert  and  the  pork  of  the  pan  quite 
left  out  of  view.  How,  with  his  national  exag- 
geration run  riot,  he  depicted  the  valley  of  tlie 
■Great  Salt  Lake  as  a  Paradise,  and  the  City 
ds  an  apocalyptic  wonder,  all  jasper  and  sar- 
lonyx,  all  beryl  and  chrysoprase ;  and  no  mud 
and  no  adobe.  How  he  suggested  that  in  a 
new  country,  under  his  advice,  the  old  man's 
little  capital  would  soon  swell  to  a  great  in- 
heritance for  his  daughter. 

By  the  light  of  that  afternoon's  scene,  over 
the  tea,  I  could  comprehend  the  close  of  Mr. 
Clitheroe's  dreary  story,  and  see  how  at  last 
Sizzum  had  got  him  in  his  gripe,  property,  per- 
son, and  soul. 

Did  he  wish  to  escape  ? 

No.     On !   on !  he  must  go  on.     Only  some 


HUGH   CLITHEROE.  165 

force  without  himself,  interposed,  could  tarn 
him  aside. 

What  was  this  force  to  be  ? 

Nothing  that  I  could  say  or  do  ;  that  I  saw 
clearly.  His  illusions  might  be  nearly  gone ; 
but  he  would  hate  and  distrust  any  one  who 
ventured  to  pull  the  scales  from  Ids  eyes,  and 
show  him  his  crazy  folly.  Lideed,  I  dreaded 
lest  any  attempt  to  enlighten  him  would  drive 
him  into  actual  madness  by  despair.  K  he 
had  given  me  a  shadow  of  encouragement,  1 
was  ready  to  follow  out  the  hint  I  had  dropped 
when  I  said  to  Brent,  "  What  a  night  for  a 
gallop!"  My  own  risk  I  was  willing  to  take. 
But  escape  for  the  lady,  without  him,  was  bar- 
barous, and  we  could  not  treat  him  like  a  Sa- 
bine damsel,  and  lug  him  off  by  the  hair. 

What  could  his  daughter  do  ?  Clearly  noth- 
ing. He  had  evidently  long  ago  revolted  against 
her.  K  I  did  not  mistake  her  faithful  face,  she 
would  stand  by  her  father  to  the  last.  Plead  as 
he  might,  John  Brent  would  never  win  her  to 
save  herself  and  lose  her  father ;  and  indeed  that 
was  a  desertion  he  could  never  recommend. 

A  dark  look  for  all  parties. 

Whence  was  the  force  to  come  that  should 
solve  the  difficulty  ? 


CHAPTER   XV. 


A  LOVER. 


Two  long  hours  I  had  kept  Mr.  CUtheroe  in 
talk.  For  my  friend's  sake  I  would  have  pro- 
longed the  interview  indefinitely.  For  my  own, 
too.  He  was  a  new  character  to  me,  this  gentle 
soul,  so  sadly  astray.  My  filial  feeling  for  him 
deepened  momently.  And  as  my  pity  grew  more 
exquisitely  painful,  I  shrank  still  from  quitting 
him,  and  so  acknowledging  that  the  pity  was 
hopeless. 

We  approached  the  fort.  The  fiddlers  three 
were  dragging  their  last  grumbling  notes  out  of 
drowsy  strings.  The  saints  began  to  stream  by 
toward  their  wagons.  We  turned  away  to  avoid 
recognition. 

Miss  Clitheroe  and  Brent  joined  us,  —  a  sadder 
pair  than  we.  The  stars  showed  me  the  glim- 
mer of  tears  in  her  eyes.  But  her  look  was 
brave  and  steady.  She  left  my  friend,  and  laid 
her  hand  on  her  father's  arm.  A  marked  like- 
ness, and  yet  a  contrast  more  marked,  between 
these  two.     He  had  given  her  his  refinement,  a 


A   LOVEK.  167 

quality  so  in  Mm  and  of  him  that  lie  colored 
whatever  came  near  him  with  an  emanation  from 
himself,  and  so  was  blinded  to  its  real  crude 
tints.  By  this  medium  he  made  in  his  descrip- 
tion that  black  hole  of  a  coal  mine,  where  so 
many  of  his  years  had  been  buried,  a  grotto  of 
enchantment.  He  filled  the  world  with  illusions. 
Whatever  was  future  and  whatever  was  past, 
seen  through  his  poetic  imagination,  seemed  to 
him  so  beautiful,  or  so  strange  and  interesting, 
that  he  lost  all  care  for  the  discomforts  of  the 
present.  And  this  same  refinement  of  nature 
deluded  him  in  judging  character.  Bad  and 
base  motives  seemed  to  him  so  ugly,  that  he 
^•efused  to  see  them,  shrank  from  belief  in 
them,  and  insisted  upon  trusting  that  men  were 
(is  honorable  as  himself.  He  was  a  man  for 
prosperity.  What  did  fate  mean  by  maltreating 
him  with  the  manifold  adversities  of  his  hfe  ? 
To  what  end  was  this  sad  error  ? 

A  strange  contrast,  with  all  the  likeness,  be- 
tween his  daughter  and  him.  A  more  vigorous 
being  had  mingled  its  life  with  hers.  Or  perhaps 
the  stern  history  of  her  early  days  had  taught 
her  to  forge  the  armor  of  self-protection.  She 
seemed  to  have  all  her  father's  refinement,  but 
she  used  it  to  surround  and  seclude  herself,  not 
to  change  and  glorify  others.  Godiva  was  not 
more  dehcately  hidden  from  the  vulgar  world  by 


168  JOHN   BRENT. 

the  mantle  of  her  own  golden  hair,  than  this 
sweet  lady  by  her  veil  of  gentle  breeding. 

As  she  took  her  father's  arm  to  lead  him  away 
to  the  camp,  I  could  read  in  her  look  that  there 
were  no  illusions  for  her.  But  she  clave  to  her 
father,  —  the  blinder  and  more  hopelessly  errant 
he  might  be,  the  closer  she  clave.  He  might 
reject  her  guidance ;  she  still  stood  by  to  protect 
him,  to  sweeten  his  life,  and  when  the  darkness 
came,  which  she  could  not  but  foresee,  to  be  a 
light  to  him.  However  adversity  had  thus  far 
failed  to  teach  him  self-possession,  it  had  made 
her  a  heroine  and  a  martyr,  —  a  noble  and  un- 
selfish soul,  such  as,  one  among  the  myriads, 
God  educates  to  shame  the  base  and  the  trifling, 
and  to  hearten  and  inspire  the  true. 

"  Now,  dear  father,"  she  said,  "  we  must  bid 
these  kind  friends  good  night.  We  start  early. 
We  need  rest." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  me. 

"  Dear  lady,"  said  I,  taking  her  aside  a  mo- 
ment while  Brent  spoke  to  Mr.  Clitheroe,  "  we 
are  acquaintances  of  to-day ;  but  campaigners 
must  despise  ceremony.  Your  father  has  told 
me  much  of  your  history.  I  infer  your  feel- 
ings. Consider  me  as  a  brother.  Nothing  can 
be  done  to  aid  you  ?  " 

"  Your  kindness  and  your  friend's  kindness 
touch  me  greatly.     Nothing  can  be  done." 


A  LOVER.  16y 

She  sobbed  a  little.     I  still  held  her  hand. 

"  Nothing  !  "  said  I,  "  nothing !  Will  you  go 
on  with  these  people?  you,  a  lady!  with  your 
fate  staring  you  in  the  face !  " 

She  withdrew  her  hand  and  looked  at  me 
steadily  with  her  large  gray  eyes.  "What  a 
woman  to  follow  into  the  jaws  of  death ! 

"  My  fate,"  she  said,  "  can  be  no  worse  than 
the  old  common  fate  of  death.  That  I  accept, 
any  other  I  defy.  God  does  not  leave  the  wor- 
thy to  shame." 

"  We  say  so,  when  we  hope." 

"I  say  it  and  believe." 

"  Come,  Ellen  dear,"  called  her  father. 

There  was  always  between  them,  whenever 
they  spoke,  by  finer  gentleness  of  tone  and  words 
of  endearment,  a  recognition  of  how  old  and  close 
and  exclusive  was  their  union.  Only  when  Siz- 
zum  was  present  at  tea,  the  tenderness,  under 
that  coarsening  mfluence,  passed  away  from  the 
father's  voice  and  manner,  making  the  daugh- 
ter's more  and  more  tender,  that  she  might  win 
him  back  to  her. 

"  Good  bye  !  "  she  said.  "  We  shall  remember 
each  other  kindly." 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Clitheroe.  "  This 
has  been  quite  the  pleasantest  episode  of  our 
journey.  You  must  not  forget  us  when  you  are 
roaming  through  this  region  again." 

8 


170  JOHN   BRENT. 

He  said  this  with  his  light,  cheerful  manner 
They  turned  away.  It  seemed  as  if  Death  arose 
and  parted  us.  We  followed  at  a  distance  and 
watched  them  safe  to  their  wagon.  The  night 
wind  had  risen,  and  went  sighing  over  the  desert 
reaches,  bringing  with  it  the  distant  howling  of 
wolves. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me,"  said  Brent,  "  I  will 
talk  to  you  by  and  by." 

He  left  me  and  went  toward  our  horses.  It 
had  been  imprudent  to  leave  them  so  long  at 
night,  with  bad  spirits  about. 

I  looked  into  the  fort  again.  The  dancers 
had  gone.  Bottery  was  fumbling  drunkenly 
over  his  fiddle.  A  score  of  men  were  within 
the  house  carousing.  Old  Bridger's  whiskey 
had  evidently  flowed  freely.  In  on^  corner 
Larrap  had  unrolled  a  greasy  faro-cloth  and 
was  dealing.  Murker  backed  him.  They  were 
winning  largely.  They  bagged  their  winnings 
out  of  sight,  as  fast  as  they  fell  in.  Sizzum, 
rather  to  my  surprise,  was  a  little  excited  with 
liquor,  and  playing  recklessly,  losing  sovereigns 
by  the  handful.  As  he  lost,  he  became  furious. 
He  struck  Larrap  in  the  face  and  called  him 
cheat.  Larrap  gave  him  an  ugly  look,  and  then, 
assuming  a  boozy  indifference,  caught  Sizzum 
by  the  hand  and  vowed  he  was  his  best  friend. 
Murker  kept  aloof  from  the  dispute.     The  game 


A  LOVER.  171 

began  again.  Again  Sizziim  and  the  Mormons 
lost.  Again  Sizzum  slapped  the  dealer,  and, 
catching  the  faro-cloth,  tore  it  in  two.  The  two 
gamblers  saw  that  they  were  in  danger.  They 
had  kept  themselves  sober  and  got  the  others 
drunk  for  such  a  crisis.  They  hurried  out  of 
the  way.  Sizzum  and  his  brother  saints  chased 
them  ;  but  presently,  losing  sight  of  them  in  the 
dusk,  they  staggered  off  toward  camp,  singing 
uproariously.  Their  leader  on  this  festival  had 
somewhat  forgotten  the  dignity  of  the  apostle 
and  captain. 

This  low  rioting  was  doubly  disgusting  to  me, 
after  the  sad  evening  with  our  friends.  I  found 
Sizzum  more  offensive  as  a  man  of  the  world 
than  as  a  saint.  I  say  man  of  the  world,  be- 
cause the  gambling  scenes  of  nominal  gentle- 
men are  often  just  as  hateful,  if  more  decorous, 
than  those  of  that  night.  I  walked  slowly  off 
toward  camp,  sorrowful  and  sick  at  heart.  Base- 
ness and  vulgarity  had  never  seemed  to  me  so 
base  and  vulgar  tiU  now. 

I  suddenly  heard  a  voice  in  the  bushes.  Ifc 
was  Larrap.  He  was  evidently  persuading  his 
comrade  to  some  villany.  I  caught  a  suspicious 
word  or  two. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  I,  "  you  want  our  horses. 
We  will  see  to  that." 

I  walked  softly  by.     Brent  was  seated  by  the 


172  JOHN   BRENT. 

embers  of  a  camp-fire,  cowered  ia  a  heap,  like 
a  cold  Indian.  He  raised  his  face.  All  the 
light  had  gone  out  of  him.  This  trouble  had 
suddenly  worn  into  his  being,  like  the  shirt 
of  Nessus,  and  poisoned  his  life. 

"  John,"  said  I,  "  I  never  knew  you  despond- 
ent before." 

"  This  is  not  despondency." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  Despair." 

"  I  cannot  offer  to  cheer  you." 

"  It  is  bitter.  Wade.  I  have  yearned  to  be 
a  lover  for  years.  All  at  once  I  find  the  woman 
I  have  seen  and  thought  of,  and  known  from  my 
first  conscious  moment.  The  circumstances 
crowded  my  love  into  sudden  intensity.  I 
made  the  observations  and  did  the  work  of 
months  of  acquaintance  in  those  few  moments 
while  we  were  at  tea.  My  mind  always  acts 
quick.  I  seem  always  to  have  been  discussing 
my  decisions  with  myself,  years  before  the  sub- 
ject of  decision  comes  to  me.  Whatever  hap- 
pens, falls  on  me  with  the  force  of  a  doom.  I 
loved  Miss  Clitheroe's  voice  the  instant  I  heard 
its  brave  tenderness  answering  her  father.  I 
loved  her  unseen,  and  would  have  died  for  her 
that  moment.  When  she  appeared,  and  I  saw 
her  face  and  read  her  heart,  I  knew  that  it  was 
the  old  dream,  —  the  old  dream  that  I   never 


A  LOVER.  173 

thought  would  be  other  than  a  dream.  The 
ancient  hope  and  expectation,  coeval  with  my 
life,  was  fulfilled.  She  is  the  other  self  I  have 
been  waiting  for  and  seeking  for." 

"  Have  you  told  her  so  ?  " 

"  Can  a  man  stop  the  beating  of  his  heart  ? 
Can  a  man  not  breathe  ?  Not  in  words,  perhaps 
I  did  not  use  the  lover  words.  But  she  under- 
stood me.  She  did  not  seem  surprised.  She 
recognizes  such  a  passion  as  her  right  and 
desert." 

"  A  great-hearted  woman  can  see  how  a  man 
worthy  of  her  can  nulhfy  time  and  space,  and 
meet  her,  soul  to  soul,  in  eternity  from  the  first." 

"  So  I  meet  her  ;  but  circumstances  here  are 
stronger  than  love." 

"  Can  she  do  nothing  with  her  father  ?  " 

"Nothing.  She  failed  in  England  when  this 
delusion  first  fell  upon  him." 

"  Did  she  know  what  it  meant  for  her  and 
him?" 

"  Hardly.     She  even  fancied  that  they  would 
be  happier  in  America  than  at  home,  where  she 
saw  that  his  old  grandeur  was  always  reproach 
uig  him." 

"  Did  he  conceal  from  her  the  goal  and  object 
of  his  emigration?  " 

"  She  knew  he  was,  or  supposed  himself  to  be, 
a   Mormon.      But   Mormonism   was   little  more 


174  JOHN  BRENT. 

than  a  name  to  her.  She  believed  his  perversion 
only  a  transitory  folly.  It  is  but  recentl}?,  only 
since  they  were  away  from  succor,  off  in  the 
desert,  that  she  has  perceived  her  own  risk. 
She  hoped  that  the  voyage  from  England  would 
disenchant  her  father,  and  that  she  could  keep 
him  in  the  States.  No  ;  he  was  committed ;  he 
was  impracticable.  You  have  seen  yourself  how 
far  his  faith  is  shaken.  Just  so  far  that  his 
crazy  cheerfulness  has  given  place  to  moping; 
but  he  will  hear  nothing  of  reason." 

"  What  does  she  anticipate  ?  " 

"  She  says  she  only  dares  to  endure.  Day  by 
day  they  both  wear  away.  Day  by  day  her 
father's  bright  hope  dwindles  away.  Day  by  day 
she  perceives  the  moment  of  her  own  danger 
approaching.  She  could  not  speak  to  me  of  it ; 
but  I  could  feel  by  her  tone  her  disgust  and  dis- 
dain of  Sizzum.  0,  how  steady  and  noble  she 
is !  All  for  her  father !  All  to  guide  him  with 
the  fewest  pangs  to  that  desolate  death  she  knows 
must  come !  She  gave  me  a  few  touches  of  their 
past  history,  so  that  I  could  see  how  much  closer 
and  tenderer  than  the  common  bond  of  parent 
and  child  theirs  had  been." 

"  That  I  saw,  from  the  old  gentleman's  story. 
Sorrow  and  poverty  ennoble  love." 

"  She  thanked  me  and  you  so  sweetly  for  our 
society,  and  the  kind  words  we  had  given  them. 


A   LOVER.  175 

She  liad  not  seen  her  father  so  cheerful,  so  like 
himself,  since  they  had  left  England." 

"  What  a  weary  pilgrimage  they  must  have 
had,  poor  errant  souls !  " 

"  0  Wade,  Wade !  how  this  tragedy  of  theirs 
cures  me  forever  of  any  rebellion  against  my 
own  destiny.  A  helpless  woman's  tragedy  is  so 
much  bitterer  than  anything  that  can  befall  a 
man." 

"  Must  we  say  helpless,  John  ?  " 

"  Are  we  two  an  army,  that  we  can  take  them 
by  force  ?  She  has  definitely  closed  any  further 
communication  on  our  part.  She  said  that  I 
could  not  have  failed  to  notice  how  Elder  Sizzum 
disliked  our  presence.  I  must  promise  her  not 
to  be  seen  with  them  in  the  morning.  Sizzum 
would  find  some  means  to  punish  her  father,  and 
that  would  be  torture  to  her.  It  seems  that  vil- 
lain plays  on  the  old  man's  rehgious  supersti- 
tions, and  can  terrify  him  almost  to  madness." 

"  The  villain !  And  yet  how  far  back  of  him 
lies  the  blame,  that  such  terrors  can  exist  in  any 
man's  mind,  when  God  is  Love." 

"I  promised  her  not  to  see  her  again  —  for 
you  and  myself;  to  see  her  no  more.  That 
good-bye  was  final.  Now  let  me  alone  for  a 
while,  my  dear  old  boy ;  I  am  worn  out  and 
heart-broken." 

He  mummied  himself  in  his  blankets,  and  lay 


176  JOHN  BRENT. 

on  the  grass,  motionless  as  a  dead  man.  It  was 
not  his  way  to  shirk  camp  duties.  Indeed,  his 
volunteer  services  had  left  me  in  arrears. 

I  put  our  fire-arms  in  order  in  case  of  attack, 
and  extinguished  our  fire.  Our  horses,  too,  I 
drove  in  and  tethered  close  by.  My  old  suspicion 
of  Murker  and  Larrap  had  revived  from  their 
mutterings.  I  thought  that,  after  their  great 
winnings  of  to-night,  they  would  feel  that  they 
could  make  nothing  more  of  the  mail  party,  and 
might  seize  the  chance  to  stampede  or  steal  some 
of  the  Mormon  horses  or  ours.  It  was  a  capital 
chance  in  the  sleepy  hours  after  the  revel.  Horse- 
stealing, since  the  bad  example  of  Diomed,  has 
never  gone  out  of  fashion.  Fulano  and  Pumps 
were  great  prizes.  I  knew  that  Larrap  hated 
Brent  for  his  undisguised  abhorrence  and  the 
ugly  words  and  collision  of  to-day.  The  pair 
bore  good-will  to  neither  of  us.  Their  brutality 
had  jarred  with  us  from  the  beginning.  I  knew 
ihey  would  take  personal  pleasure  in  serving  us 
a  shabby  trick  out  of  their  dixonary.  On  the 
whole,  I  determined  to  watch  all  night. 

Easy  to  purpose ;  hard  to  perform.  I  leaned 
agauast  my  saddle  and  thought  over  the  day. 
How  I  pitied  poor  Brent !  Pitied  him  the  more 
thoroughly,  since  I  was  hardly  less  a  lover  than 
he.  Long  afterwards,  long  after  the  misery  of 
love  dead  in  despair,  comes  the  time  when  one 


A   LOVER  177 

can  say,  "  Ich  babe  gelebt  und  geliebet";  can 
know,  "  'T  is  better  to  bave  loved  and  lost,  tban 
never  to  bave  loved  at  all."     But  no  sucb  sootb- 
ing  poetry  could  sing  resignation  to  my  friend 
in  bis  unselfisb  misery.      All  be  could  do  —  all 
I  could  do  —  was  to  bear  tbe  agony  of  tbis  sud- 
den cruel  wrong ;  to  curse  tbe  cbances  of  life 
tbat  bad  so  weakened  tbe  soul  of  our  new  friend 
and  so  darkened  bis  sigbt  tbat  he  could  not  know 
trutb  from  falsehood.     Doubly  to  curse  tbe  false- 
hood.     Before,  it  had   only  been  something  to 
scorn.    Here  tragedy  entered.    Tbe  mean,  miser- 
able, ludicrous  invention  of  Mormonism,  tbe  fool- 
ish fable  of  an  idler,  bad  grown  to  be  a  great 
masterly  tyranny.    These  two  souls  were  clutched 
by  tbis  foul  ogre,  and  locked  up  in  an  impregna- 
ble prison.     And  we  two  were  baffled.     Of  what 
use    was  our   loyalty    to   woman  ?     "What  vam 
words  those  unuttered  words  of  our  knightly  vow 
to  succor  all  distressed  damsels,  —  the  vow  that 
every  gentleman  takes  upon  himself,  as  earnestly 
now,  and  wills  to  keep  as  faithfully,  as  any  Arte- 
gall  in  tbe  days  gone  by,  when  wrong  took  crud- 
er and  more  monstrous  form  !     More  monstrous 
form !     Could   any   wrong  be  more  detestable ! 
Did   knidit,  who  loved    God   and   honored   bis 
lady,  ever   encounter   more   paynim-like    horde 
tban  tbis,  —  the  ignorant  misled  by  tbe  base? 
7n  sucb  dreary  protest  and  pity  I  passed  an 

8*  L 


178  JOHN  BRENT. 

hour.  The  evening  breeze  had  strengthened  mtc 
a  great  gusty  wind,  blowing  from  the  moun- 
tains to  the  southward.  I  drowsed  a  little.  A 
])erturbed  slumber  overcame  me.  The  roaring 
night-wind  aroused  me  at  intervals  with  a  blast 
more  furious,  and  I  woke  to  perceive  ominous 
and  turbulent  dreams  flitting  from  my  brain,  — 
dreams  of  violence,  tyranny,  and  infamous  out- 
rage. 

Suddenly  another  sensation  went  creeping 
along  my  nerves.  I  sat  bolt  upright.  There 
was  a  feeling  of  human  presence,  of  stealthy  ap- 
proach coming  up  against  the  night-wind  and 
crushing  its  roar  with  a  sound  more  penetrat- 
ing. 

Brent,  too,  was  on  the  alert. 

"  Some  one  at  our  horses,"  he  whispered. 

We  dashed  forward.  There  was  a  rustle  of 
flight  through  the  bushes.  We  each  fired  a 
shot.     The  noise  ceased. 

"  Stop  !  "  said  my  friend,  as  I  was  giving 
chase.  "  We  must  not  leave  the  horses.  They 
will  stampede  them  while  we  are  off." 

"  They  ?  perhaps  it  was  only  a  cayote  or  a 
wolf     Why,  Fulano  !  old  fellow  !  " 

Fulano  trotted  up,  neighing,  and  licked  my 
hand.  His  lariat  had  been  cut,  —  a  clean  cut 
with  a  knife.     We  were  only  just  in  time. 

"  We  must  keep  watch  till  morning,"  said  I. 


A   LOVER.  179 

''  I  have  been  drowsing.      I  will  take  tlie  first 
hour." 

Brent,  with  a  moan  of  weariness,  threw  him- 
self down  again  on  the  grass.     I  sat  watchful. 

The  night-wind  went  roaring  on.  It  loves 
those  sweeps  and  surges  of  untenanted  plain, 
as  it  loves  the  lifts  and  levels  of  the  barren 
sea.  The  fitful  gale  rushed  down  as  if  it  boiled 
over  the  edge  of  some  great  hollow  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  then  stayed  to  gather  force  for  an- 
other overflow.  In  its  pauses  I  could  hear  the 
stir  and  murmur  of  the  Mormon  cattle,  a  thou- 
sand and  more.  But  once  there  came  a  larger 
pause  ;  the  air  grew  silent,  as  if  it  had  never 
known  a  breeze,  or  as  if  all  life  and  motion 
between  earth  and  sky  were  utterly  and  for- 
ever quelled. 

In  that  one  instant  of  dead  stillness,  when  the 
noise  of  the  cattle  was  hushed,  and  our  horses 
ceased  champing  to  listen,  I  seemed  to  hear  the 
clang  of  galloping  hoofs,  not  far  away  to  the 
southward. 

Galloping  hoofs,  surely  I  heard  them.  Or 
was  it  only  the  charge  of  a  fresh  blast  down 
the  mountain-side,  uprooting  ancient  pines,  and 
flmging  great  rocks  from  crag  to  chasm? 

And  that  strange,  terrible,  human,  inhuman 
sound,  outringing  the  noise  of  the  hoofs,  and 
making  the  silence  a  ghastly  horror,  —  was  i^ 
a  woman's  scream  ? 


180  JOHN  BRENT. 

No ;  it  could  only  be  my  fevered  imagina- 
tion, that  found  familiar  sounds  in  the  inar- 
ticulate voices  of  the  wilderness.  I  listened 
long  and  intently.  The  wind  sighed,  and  raved, 
and  threatened  again.  I  heard  the  dismal  howl- 
ing of  wolves  far  away  in  the  darkness. 

I  kept  a  double  watch  of  two  hours,  and  then, 
calling  Brent  to  do  his  share,  threw  myself  on 
the  grass  and  slept  soundly. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


AEMSTEONG. 


I  AWOKE  in  the  solemn  quiet  dawn  of  tlie 
next  morning  with  my  forebodings  of  ill  gone, 
and  in  their  stead  what  I  could  not  but  deem 
a  baseless  hopefulness  for  our  new  friends'  wel- 
fare. 

Brent  did  not  share  it.  His  usual  gay  matin- 
song  was  dumb.  He  cowered,  chilled  and  spirit- 
less, by  our  camp-fire.  Breakfast  was  an  idle 
ceremony  to  both.  We  sat  and  looked  at  each 
other.  His  despair  began  to  infect  me.  This 
would  not  do. 

I  left  my  friend,  sitting  unnerved  and  pur- 
poseless, and  walked  to  the  mail-riders'  camp. 

Jake  Shamberlain  was  already  stirring  about, 
as  merry  as  a  grig,  —  and  that  is  much  to  say 
on  the  Plains.  There  are  two  grigs  to  every 
blade  of  grass  from  Echo  Cailon  to  the  South 
Pass,  and  yet  every  one  sings  and  skips,  as  gay  as 
if  merriment  would  make  the  desert  a  meadow, 

"  You  are  astir  early  after  the  ball,  Jake," 
said  I. 


182  JOHN  BRENT. 

*'  Ef  I  wait  till  tlio  gals  in  the  train  begins 
to  polky  round,  I  shan't  git  my  men  away 
nayry  time.  They  olluz  burr  to  gals,  like  all 
young  fellers.  We  '11  haul  off  jest  as  soon  as 
you  're  ready." 

"  We  are  ready,"  I  said. 

I  made  our  packs,  and  saddled  the  mustangs. 

"  Come,  Brent,"  said  I,  shaking  him  by  the 
shoulder,  "  start,  old  fellow  !  Your  ride  will 
rouse  you." 

He  obeyed,  and  mounted.  He  was  quite 
cowed  and  helpless.  I  did  not  know  my  brave, 
cheerful  friend  in  this  weak  being.  He  seemed 
to  me  as  old  and  dreary  as  Mr.  Clitheroe.  Love 
must  needs  have  taken  a  very  cruel  clutch  upon 
his  heart.  Indeed,  to  the  delicate  nature  of 
such  a  man,  love  is  either  life  of  life,  or  a  mur- 
derous blight  worse  than  death. 

As  we  started,  a  gray  dawn  was  passing  into 
the  violet  liglit  just  before  sunrise.  The  gale 
had  calmed  itself  away.  The  tender  hues  of 
morning  glorified  the  blue  adobes  of  Bridger's 
shabby  fort.  It  rested  on  the  plain,  still  as  the 
grave,  —  stiller  for  the  contrast  of  this  silent 
hour  with  last  night's  riot.  A  deathly  quiet, 
too,  dwelt  upon  the  Mormon  caravan.  There 
were  the  white-topped  wagons  just  growing  rosy 
with  the  fond  colors  of  early  day.  No  aban- 
doned camp  of  a  fled  army  could  have  looked 


AEMSTROXG.  183 

more  lonely.  Half  a  mile  from  the  train  were 
the  cattle  feeding  quietly  in  a  black  mass,  like 
a  herd  of  buffalo.  There  was  not  one  man, 
out  of  our  own  party,  to  be  seen. 

"  Where  are  their  sentinels,  Jake  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Too  much  spree  for  good  watch,"  says  he. 

"  Elder  Sizzum  ought  to  look  sharper." 

"  He  's  a  prime  leader.  But  he  tuk  dance, 
argee,  and  faro  last  night  with  a  perfect  loose- 
ness. I  dunno  what 's  come  over  Sizzum  ;  bein' 
a  great  apossle  's  maybe  too  much  for  him.  But 
then  he  knows  ther  ain't  no  Utes  round  here,  to 
stampede  his  animals  or  run  off  any  of  his  gals. 
Both  er  you  men  could  have  got  you  a  wife 
apiece  last  night,  and  ben  twenty  miles  on  the 
way,  and  nobody  the  wiser.  Now,  boys,  be  alive 
with  them  mules.     I  want  to  be  off." 

"  Where  are  Smith  and  Robinson  ?  "  I  asked, 
missing  the  two  gamblers  as  we  started. 

"  Let  'em  slide,  cuss  'em !  "  said  Jake. 
" '  Taint  my  business  to  call  'em  up,  and  fetch 
'em  hot  water,  and  black  their  boots.  They 
moved  camp  away  from  us,  over  into  the  brush 
by  you.  Reckon  they  was  afeard  some  on  us 
would  be  goin'  halves  with  'em  in  the  pile  they 
raked  last  night.  Let  'em  slide,  the  durn  rip- 
perbits !  Every  man  for  hisself,  I  say.  They 
snaked  me  to  the  figure  of  a  slug  at  their 
cheatin'  game ;  an'  now  they  may  sleep  till 
they  dry  and  turn  to  grasshopper  pie,  for  me." 


184  JOHN  BRENT. 

Jake  cracked  his  long  whip.  The  mules 
sprang  forward  together.     We  started. 

I  gave  one  more  look  at  the  caravan  we  had 
seen  winding  so  beautifully  down  on  the  plain, 
no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  evening.  Eosy 
morning  brightened  on  every  wagon  of  the  great 
ellipse.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  of  all  their 
tenants.  I  recognized  Mr.  Clitheroe's  habitation 
at  the  farther  end.  That,  too,  had  the  same 
mysterious,  deserted  air,  as  if  the  sad  pair  v/ho 
dwelt  in  it  had  desperately  wandered  away  into 
the  desert  by  night. 

Brent  would  not  turn.  He  kept  his  haggard 
face  bent  eastward,  toward  the  horizon,  where  an 
angry  sunrise  began  to  thrust  out  the  quiet  hues 
of  dawn. 

I  followed  the  train,  doggedly  refusing  to 
think  more  of  those  desolate  friends  we  were 
leaving.  Their  helpless  fate  made  all  the  beauty 
of  the  scene  only  crueller  bitterness.  What 
right  had  dawn  to  tinge  with  sweetest  violet  and 
with  hopeful  rose  the  shelters  of  that  camp  of 
delusion  and  folly ! 

We  rode  steadily  on  through  the  cool  haze, 
and  then  through  the  warm,  sunny  haze,  of  that 
October  morning.  Brent  hardly  uttered  a  word. 
He  left  me  the  whole  task  of  driving  our  horses. 
A  difficult  task  this  morning.  Their  rest  and 
feast  of  yesterday  had  put  Pumps  and  Fulano  in 


ARMSTRONG.  18A 

high  epirits.  I  had  my  hands  full  to  keep  them 
in  the  track. 

"We  had  ridden  some  eighteen  miles,  when 
Brent  fell  back  out  of  the  dust  of  our  march, 
and  beckoned  me. 

"  Dick,"  sMd  he,  "I  have  had  enough  of  this." 

He  grew  more  like  himself  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  was  crushed  and  cowardly  last  night  and 
this  morning,"  he  continued.  "  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  my  hope  and  judgment  failed  me 
together.  You  must  despise  me  for  giving  up 
and  quitting  Miss  Clitheroe." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  I,  "  we  were  partners  in 
our  despair." 

"  Mine  is  gone.  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I 
will  not  leave  her.  I  will  ride  on  with  you  to 
the  South  Pass.  That  will  give  the  caravan  a 
start,  so  that  I  can  follow  unobserved.  Then  I 
will  follow,  and  let  her  know  in  some  way  that 
she  has  a  friend  within  call.  She  must  be  saved, 
sooner  or  later,  whether  she  will  or  no.  Love  or 
no  love,  such  a  woman  shall  not  be  left  to  will 
herself  dead,  rather  than  fall  into  the  hands  of  a 
beast  like  Sizzum.  I  have  no  mission,  you 
know,"  and  he  smiled  drearily ;  "  I  make  one 
now.  I  cannot  fight  the  good  fight  against  vil- 
lany  and  brutishness  anywhere  better  than  here. 
When  I  get  into  the  valley,  I  will  camp  down  at 
Jake's.     I   can    keep   my   courage   up   hunting 


186  JOHN  BRENT. 

grizzly s  until  she  wants  me.  Perhaps  I  may 
find  Biddulph  there  still.  What  do  you  say,  old 
fellow?  I  am  bound  to  you  for  the  journey. 
Will  you  forgive  me  for  leaving  you?" 

"  You  will  find  it  hard  work  to  leave  me. 
I  go  with  you  and  stand  by  you  in  this  cause, 
life  or  death." 

"  My  dear  friend  !  my  brother !  " 

We  took  hands  on  this. 

Our  close  friendship  passed  into  completed 
brotherhood.  Doubts  and  scruples  vanished. 
We  gave  ourselves  to  our  knight-errantry. 

"  We  will  save  her,  John,"  said  I.  "  She  is 
my  sister  from  this  moment." 

His  face  lighted  up  with  the  beauty  of  his  boy- 
ish days.  He  straightened  himself  in  his  saddle, 
gave  his  fair  moustache  a  twirl,  and  hummed, 
for  gayety  of  heart,  "  Ah  non  giunge ! "  to  the 
beat  of  his  mustang's  hoofs. 

We  were  riding  at  the  bottom  of  a  little 
hollow.  The  dusty  trail  across  the  unfenced 
wilderness,  worn  smooth  and  broad  as  a  turn- 
pike by  the  march  of  myriad  caravans,  climbed 
up  the  slopes  before  and  behind  us,  like  the 
wake  of  a  ship  between  surges.  The  mail  train 
had  disappeared  over  the  ridge.  Our  horses 
had  gone  with  it.  Brent  and  I  were  alone, 
as  if  the  world  hel(?   no  other  tenants. 

Suddenly  we  heard  the  rush  of  a  horseman 
after  us. 


ARMSTRONG.  187 

Before  we  could  turn  lie  was  down  the  hil- 
lock,—  he  was  at  our  side. 

He  pulled  his  horse  hard  upon  his  haunches 
and  glared  at  us.  A  fierce  look  it  was  ;  yet 
a  bewildered  look,  as  of  one  suddenly  cheated 
of  a  revenge  he  had  laid  finger  on. 

He  glared  at  us,  we  gazed  at  him,  an  instant, 
without  a  word. 

A  ghastly  pair  —  this  apparition  —  horse  and 
man  !  The  horse  was  a  tall,  gaunt  white.  There 
were  the  deep  hollows  of  age  over  his  blood- 
phot  eyes.  His  outstretched  head  showed  that 
he  shared  his  master's  eagerness  of  pursuit. 
Peath  would  have  chosen  such  a  steed  for  a 
gallop  on  one  of  death's  errands. 

Death  would  have  commissioned  such  a  rider 
to  bear  a  sentence  of  death.  A  tall,  gaunt  man, 
with  the  loose,  long  frame  of  a  pioneer.  But 
the  brown  vigor  of  a  pioneer  was  gone  from 
him.  His  face  was  lean  and  bloodless.  It  was 
clear  where  some  of  his  blood  had  found  issue. 
A  strip  of  old  white  blanket,  soiled  with  dust 
and  blood,  was  turbaned  askew  about  his  head^ 
and  under  it  there  showed  the  ugly  edges  of 
a  recent  wound. 

When  he  pulled  up  beside  us,  his  stringy 
right  hand  was  ready  upon  the  butt  of  a  re- 
volver. He  dropped  the  muzzle  as  he  looked 
at  us. 


188  JOHN  BRENT. 

For  what  hoiTor  was  this  man  the  embodied 
Nemesis ! 

"  Where  are  they  ?  " 

He  whispered  this  question  in  a  voice  thick 
with  stern  purpose,  and  shuddering  with  some 
recollection  that  inspired  the  purpose. 

"They!  who?" 

"  The  two  murderers." 

"  They  stayed  behind  at  Bridger." 

"  No.  The  Mormons  told  me  they  were  here. 
Don't  hide  them!    Their  time  is  come." 

Still  in  the  same  curdling  whisper.  He 
crvished  his  voice,  as  if  he  feared  the  very  hil- 
locks of  the  prairie  would  reverberate  his  words, 
and  earth  would  utter  a  warning  cry  to  those 
he  hunted  to  fly,  fly,  for  the  avenger  of  blood 
was  at  hand. 

No  need  to  be  told  whom  he  sought.  The 
two  gamblers  —  the  two  murderers  —  the  brutes 
we  had  suspected ;  but  where  were  they  ?  Where 
to  be  sought? 

We  hailed  the  mail  train.  It  was  but  a 
hundred  yards  before  us  over  the  ridge.  Jake 
Shamberlain  and  his  party  returned  to  learn 
what  delayed  us. 

The  haggard  horsemen  stared  at  them  all,  in 
silence. 

"  I  've  seen  you  before,  stranger,"  said  Sham- 
berlain. 


ARMSTRONG.  189 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  in  his  shuddering 
whisper. 

"  It 's  Armstrong  from  Oregon,  from  the  Ump- 
qiia,  aint  it?  You  don't  look  as  if  you  were 
after  cattle  this  time.    Where  's  your  brother  ?  " 

"  Murdered." 

"  I  allowed  something  had  happened,  because 
he  warnt  along.  I  never  seed  two  men  stick 
so  close  as  you  and  he  did.  They  didn't  kill 
him  without  gettin'  a  lick  at  you,  I  see.  Who 
was  it  ?    Lidians  ?  " 

"  Worse." 

"  I  reckon  I  know  why  you  're  after  us,  then." 

"  I  can't  waste  time,  Shamberlain,"  said  Arm- 
strong, in  a  hurried  whisper.  "  I'll  tell  you  in 
two  words  what's  happened  to  me,  and  p'r'aps 
you  can  help  me  to  find  the  men  I  mean  to 
find." 

"  I'll  help  you,  if  I  know  how,  Armstrong.  I 
haint  seen  no  two  in  my  life,  old  country  or  new 
country,  saints  or  gentiles,  as  I  'd  do  more  for  'n 
you  and  your  brother.  I  've  olluz  said,  ef  the 
world  was  chock  full  of  Armstrongs,  Paradise 
would  n't  pay,  and  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob 
mout  just  as  well  blow  out  their  candle  and  go 
under  a  bushel-basket,  unless  a  half-bushel  would 
kiver  'em." 

The  stranger  seemed  insensible  to  this  compli- 
ment.    He  went  on  in  the  same  whisper,  full  of 


190  JOHN  BRENT. 

agony,  pain,  and  weariness.  While  he  talked, 
his  panting  horse  drew  up  his  lip  and  whinnied, 
showing  his  long,  yellow  teeth.  The  spirit  of  his 
rider  had  entered  him.  He  was  impatient  of 
this  dalliance. 

"  We  were  coming  down  from  the  Umpqua, 
my  brother  and  I,"  says  Armstrong,  "  goan 
across  to  the  States,  to  drive  out  cattle  next 
summer.  We  was  a  little  late  one  morning, 
along  of  our  horses  havin'  strayed  off  froni 
camp,  and  that  was  how  we  met  them  men. 
Two  on  'em  ther'  was,  —  a  tall,  most  ungodly 
Pike,  and  a  little  fat,  mean-lookin'  runt.  We 
lighted  on  'em  jest  to  the  crossin'  of  Bear  River. 
They  was  comin'  from  Sacramenter,  they  said. 
I  kinder  allowed  they  was  horse-thieves,  and 
wanted  to  shy  off.  But  Bill  —  that  was  my 
brother " 

Here  the  poor  fellow  choked  a  little. 

"  Bill,  he  never  could  n't  think  wrong  of  no- 
body. Bill,  he  said, '  No.  Looks  was  nothin','  he 
said,  '  and  we  'd  jine  the  fellers.'  So  we  did, 
and  rode  together  all  day,  and  camped  together 
on  a  branch  we  cum  to.  I  reckon  we  talked  too 
much  about  the  cattle  we  was  goan  to  buy,  and 
I  suppose  ther'  aint  many  on  the  Pacific  side 
that  aint  heard  of  the  Armstrongs.  They  al- 
lowed we  had  money,  —  them  murderers  did. 
Well,  we  camped  all  right,  and  went  to  sleep, 


AEMSTKONG.  191 

and  i  never  knowed  nothin',  ef  it  warnt  a  dream 
that  a  grizzly  had  wiped  me  over  the  head,  till  1 
woke  up  the  next  day  with  the  sun  brilin'  down 
on  my  head,  and  my  head  all  raw  and  bloody,  as 
ef  I  'd  been  scalped.  And  there  was  Bill  —  my 
brother  Bill  —  lyin'  dead  in  his  blankets." 

A  shudder  passed  through  our  group.  These 
were  the  men  we  had  tolerated,  sat  with  at  the 
camp-fire,  to  whose  rough  stories  and  foul  jokes 
we  had  listened.     Brent's  instinct  was  true, 

Armstrong  was  evidently  an  honest,  simple, 
kindly  fellow.  His  eyes  were  pure,  gentle  blue. 
They  filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke.  But  the 
stern  look  remained,  the  Rhadamanthine  whisper 
only  grew  thicker  with  vengeance. 

"  Bill  was  dead,"  he  continued.  "  The  hatchet 
slipped  when  they  come  to  hit  me,  and  they  was 
too  skeared,  I  suppose,  to  go  on  choppin'  me,  as 
they  had  him.  P'r'aps  his  ghost  cum  round  and 
told  'em  't  warnt  the  fair  thing  they  'd  ben  at, 
and  't  warnt.  But  they  got  our  horses.  Bill's  big 
sorrel  and  my  Flathead  horse,  what  's  made  a 
hunderd  and  twenty-three  miles  betwixt  sunrise 
and  sunset  of  a  September  day,  goan  for  the  doc- 
tor, when  Ma  Armstrong  was  tuk  to  die.  They 
got  the  horses,  and  our  money  belts.  So  wher». 
I  found  Bill  was  dead,  I  knowed  what  my  lif& 
was  left  me  for.  I  tied  up  my  head,  and  some- 
how 1  crep,  and  walked,  and  run,  and  got  to  Box 


192  JOHN   BKENT. 

Elder.  I  don't  know  how  long  it  took,  nor  who 
showed  me  the  way ;  but  I  got  there." 

Box  Elder  is  the  northernmost  Mormon  settle- 
ment, or  was,  in  those  days. 

"  I'll  never  say  another  word  agin  the  Mormon 
religion,  Jake,"  Armstrong  went  on.  "  They 
treated  me  like  a  brother  to  Box  Elder.  They 
outfitted  me  with  a  pistol,  and  this  ere  horse. 
They  said  he  'd  come  in  from  a  train  what  the 
Indians  had  cut  off,  and  was  a  terrible  one  to  go. 
He  is ;  and  I  believe  he  knows  what  he  's  goan 
for.  I  've  ben  night  and  day  ridin'  on  them 
murderers'  trail.  Now,  men,  give  me  time  to 
think.  Bill's  murderers  aint  at  Bridger.  They 
was  there  last  midnight.  They  must  be  some- 
wheres  within  fifty  miles,  and  I  '11  find  'em,  so 
help  me  God  !  " 

His  hoarse  whisper  was  still.     No  one  spoke. 

Another  rush  of  hoofs  down  the  slope  behind ! 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

CAITIFF  BAFFLES   OGRE. 

Another  rush  of  horses'  feet  behind  us. 

What  ? 

Elder  Sizzum ! 

And  that  pale,  gray  shadow  of  a  man,  whose 
pony  the  Elder  drags  by  the  bridle,  and  lashes 
cruelly  forward,  —  who  ? 

Mr.  Clitheroe. 

Sizzum  rode  straight  up  to  Brent. 

The  two  men  faced  each  other,  —  the  big, 
hulking,  bullying  saint ;  the  slight,  graceful,  self- 
possessed  gentile.  Sizzum  quailed  a  little  when 
he  saw  the  other  did  not  quail.  He  seemed  to 
change  his  intended  form  of  address. 

"  Brother  Clitheroe  wants  his  daughter,"  said 
Sizzum. 

"  Yes,  yes,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  CUtheroe  in 
feeble  echo,  "  I  want  my  daughter." 

Brent  ignored  the  Mormon.  He  turned  to 
the  father,  and  questioned  eagerly. 

"  What  is  this,  dear  sir  ?  Is  Miss  Ellen  miss- 
ing ?  She  is  not  here.  Speak,  sir!  TeU  us 
g  M 


194  JOHN  BRENT. 

at  once  how  she  was  lost.  We  must  be  o:^ 
her  track  instantly.  Wade,  shift  the  saddles 
to  Fulano  and  Pumps,  while  I  make  up  our 
packs.     Speak,  sir !    Speak !  " 

Brent's  manner  carried  conviction,  even  to 
Sizzum. 

"  I  did  not  like  to  suspect  you,  gentlemen," 
said  Mr.  Clitheroe,  "  after  our  pleasant  evening 
and  your  kindness ;  but  Brother  Sizzum  said  it 
could  not  be  any  one  else." 

"  Get  the  facts.  Wade,"  said  Brent,  "  I  can- 
not trust  myself  to  ask." 

Sizzum  smiled  a  base,  triumphant  smile  over 
the  agony  of  my  friend. 

"  Tell  us  quick,"  said  I,  taking  Mr.  Clitheroe 
firmly  by  the  arm,  and  fixing  his  eye. 

"  In  the  night,  an  hour  or  more  after  you 
left  us,  I  was  waked  up  by  two  men  creeping 
into  the  wagon.  They  whispered  they  would 
shoot,  if  I  breathed.  They  passed  behind  the 
curtain.  My  daughter  liad  sunk  on  the  floor, 
tired  out,  poor  child !  without  undressing.  They 
threw  a  blanket  over  her  head,  and  stifled  her 
so  tliat  she  could  not  utter  a  sound.  They 
tied  me  and  gagged  me.  Then  they  dragged 
her  off.  God  forgive  me,  gentlemen,  for  sus- 
pecting you  of  such  brutality !  I  lay  in  the 
wagon  almost  strangled  to  death  until  the  team^ 
ster  came  to  put  to  the  oxen  for  our  journey. 
That  is  all  I  know." 


CAITIFF  BAFFLES   OGEE.  195 

"  The  two  gamblers,  murderers,  have  carried 
her  off,"  said  I ;  "  but  we  '11  save  her  yet,  please 
God !  " 

"  0,"  said  Sizzum,  "  ef  them  devils  has  got 
her,  that  's  the  end  of  her.  I  haint  got  no 
more  interest  in  her  case.  I  believe  I  '11  go. 
I  've  wasted  too  much  time  now  from  the  Lord's 
business." 

He  moved  to  go. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  said  Mr.  Clitheroe. 

Forlorn,  bereaved,  perplexed  old  man  !  Any 
but  a  brute  would  have  hesitated  to  strike  him 
another  blow.     Sizzum  did  not  hesitate. 

"  You  may  go  to  the  devil  across  lots,  on 
that  runt  pony  of  yourn,  with  your  new  friends, 
for  all  I  care.  I  've  had  enough  of  your  daugh- 
ter's airs,  as  if  she  was  too  good  to  be  teched 
by  one  of  the  Lord's  chosen.  But  she  '11  get 
the  Lord's  vengeance  now,  because  she  would  n't 
see  what  was  her  place  and  privileges.  And 
you  're  no  better  than  a  backslider.  You  've 
been  grumblin'  and  settin'  yourself  up  for  some- 
body. I  would  cuss  you  now  with  the  wrath 
to  come  if  such  a  poor-spirited  granny  was  wuth 
cussin'." 

The  base  wretch  lashed  his  horse  and  gal- 
loped off. 

Even  his  own  "people  of  the  mail  party  looked 
and  muttered  contempt. 


196  JOHN   BRENT. 

Mr.  Clitheroe  seemed  utterly  stunned.  Guide, 
Faith,  Daugliter,  all  gone !  Wliat  was  lie  to  do, 
indeed ! 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Clitheroe,"  said  Brent,  ten- 
derly, "  I  hope  you  have  not  lost  a  daughter. 
I  know  you  have  gained  a  son,  —  yes,  two  of 
them.     Here,  Jake  Shamberlain  !  " 

"  Here,  sir !  Up  to  time !  Ready  to  pull  my 
pound ! " 

"  "Wade  and  I  are  going  after  the  lady.  Do 
you  take  this  gentleman,  and  deliver  him  safe 
and  sound  to  Captain  Ruby  at  Fort  Laramie. 
Tell  Ruby  to  keep  him  till  we  come,  and  treat 
him  as  he  would  General  Scott.  Drive  our 
mules  and  the  mustangs  to  Laramie,  and  leave 
them  there.  We  trust  the  whole  to  you.  There  's 
no  time  to  talk.  Tell  me  what  money  you  want 
for  the  work,  and  I  '11  pay  you  now  in  ad- 
vance, whatever  you  ask." 

"  I  '11  be  switched  round  creation  ef  you  do. 
Not  the  first  red !  You.  think,  bekase  I  'm  a 
Mormon,  as  you  call  it,  I  haint  got  no  nat'ral 
feelin's.  Why,  boys,  I  'd  go  with  you  myself 
after  the  gal,  and  let  Uncle  Sam's  mail  lie  there 
and  wait  till  every  letter  answered  itself,  ef  I 
had  a  kettrypid  what  could  range  with  yourn. 
No,  no,  Jake  Shamberlain  aint  a  hog,  and  his 
mail  boys  aint  of  the  pork  kind.  I  '11  take  keer 
of  the  old  gentleman,  and  put  him  through  jest 


CAITIFF   BAFFLES   OGRE.  197 

'z  if  lie  was  my  own  father,  and  wuth  a  million 
slugs.  And  ef  that  aint  talkin'  fair,  I  dunno 
what  is." 

We  both  griped  Jake  Shamberlain's  friendly- 
fist. 

Mr.  Clitheroe,  weary  with  his  morning's  ride, 
faint  and  sick  after  his  bonds  of  the  night,  and 
now  crushed  in  spirit  and  utterly  bewildered 
with  these  sudden  changes,  was  handed  over  to 
his  new  protector. 

The  emancipating  force  had  found  him.  He 
was  free  of  his  Mormonism.  His  delusion  had 
discarded  him.  A  rough  and  cruel  termination 
of  his  hopes !  How  would  he  bear  this  disap- 
pointment ?  Would  his  heart  break  ?  Would 
his  mind  break  ?  his  life  break  ? 

We  could  not  check  ourselves  to  think  of 
him.  Our  thoughts  were  galloping  furiously  on 
in  succor  of  the  daughter,  fallen  on  an  evil 
fate. 

While  this  hasty  talk  had  been  going  on,  I  had 
shifted  our  saddles  to  Pumps  and  Fulano. .  Noble 
fellows  !  they  took  in  the  calm  excitement  of  my 
mood.  They  grew  eager  as  a  greyhound  when 
he  sees  the  hare  break  cover.  They  divined  that 
THEiB  MOMENT  HAD  COME !  Now  their  forcc  was 
to  be  pitted  against  brutality.  Horse  against 
brute,  —  which  would  win?  I  dared  ?v<>t  think 
of  the  purpose   of  our  going.      Only,   V-'^pioiia ! 


198  JOHN   BRENT. 

Begone !  was  ringing  in  my  ears,  and  a  figure 
I  dared  not  see  was  before  my  eyes. 

I  was  frenzied  with  excitement;  but  I  held 
myself  steady  as  one  holds  his  rifle  when  a  buck 
comes  leaping  out  of  the  forest  into  the  prairie, 
where  rifle  and  man  have  been  waiting  and  trem- 
bling, while  the  hounds'  bay  came  nearer,  nearer. 
I  drew  strap  and  tied  knot  of  our  girths,  and 
doubled  the  knot.  There  must  be  no  chafing  of 
saddles,  no  dismountmg  to  girth  up.  That  was 
to  be  a  gallop,  I  knew,  where  a  man  who  fell  to 
the  rear  would  be  too  late  for  the  fight. 

Brent,  meantime,  had  rolled  up  a  little  stock 
of  provisions  in  each  man's  double  blanket.  We 
were  going  we  knew  not  how  far.  We  must  be 
ready  for  work  of  many  days.  A  moment's 
calmness  over  our  preparations  now  might  save 
desolate  defeat  or  death  hereafter.  We  lashed 
our  blankets  with  their  contents  on  firmly  by 
the  buckskin  thongs  which  are  attached  to  the 
cantle  of  a  California  saddle,  —  the  only  saddle 
for  such  work  as  we  —  horses  and  men — have 
on  the  plains. 

"  Rifles  ?  "  said  I. 

"No.  Knives  and  six-shooters  are  enough," 
said  Brent,  as  cool  as  if  our  ride  were  an  orna- 
mental promenade  d  cheval.  "  We  cannot  carry 
weight  or  clumsy  weapons  on  this  journey." 

We  mounted  and  were  off,  with  a  cheer  from 
Jake  Shamberlain  and  his  boys. 


CAITIFt    BAFFLES   OGRE.  199 

All  this  time,  we  had  not  noticed  Armstrong. 
As  we  struck  off  southward  upon  the  trackless 
prairie,  that  ghastly  figure  upon  the  gaunt  white 
horse  was  beside  us. 

"  We  're  bound  on  the  same  arrant,"  whis- 
pered he.  "  Only  the  savin  's  yourn  and  the 
killin  's  mine." 

Did  my  hope  awake,  now  that  the  lady  I  had 
chosen  for  my  sister  was  snatched  from  that 
monstrous  ogre  of  Mormonism  ? 

Yes ;  for  now  instant,  urgent  action  was  pos- 
sible. We  could  do  something.  Gallop,  gallop, 
—  that  we  could  do. 

God  speed  us !  —  and  the  caitiffs  should  only 
have  baffled  the  ogre,  and  the  lady  should  be 
saved. 

K  not  saved,  avenged ! 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

A  GALLOP   OF  THREE. 

We  were  off,  we  Three  on  our  Gallop  to  save 
and  to  slay. 

Pumps  and  Fulano  took  fire  at  once.  They 
were  ready  to  burst  into  then-  top  speed,  and  go 
off  in  a  frenzy. 

"  Steady,  steady,"  cried  Brent.  "  Now  we  '11 
keep  this  long  easy  lope  for  a  while,  and  I  '11  tell 
you  my  plan. 

"  They  have  gone  to  the  southward,  —  those 
two  men.  They  could  not  get  away  in  any  other 
direction.  I  have  heard  Murker  say  he  knows 
all  the  country  between  here  and  the  Arkansaw. 
Thank  Heaven !  so  do  I,  foot  by  foot." 

I  recalled  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  I  had 
heard  in  the  night  to  the  southward. 

"  I  heard  them,  then,"  said  I,  "  in  my  watch 
after  Fulano's  lariat  was  cut.  The  wind  lulled, 
and  there  came  a  sound  of  horses,  and  another 
sound,  which  I  then  thought  a  fevered  fancy  of 
my  own,  a  far-away  scream  of  a  woman." 

Brent  had  been  quite  unimpassioned   in   his 


A    GALLOP    OF    THREE.  201 

manner  until  now.     He  groaned,  as  I  spoke  of 
the  scream. 

"  0  Wade  !  0  Richard !  "  he  said,  "  why  did 
you  not  know  the  voice  ?  It  was  she.  They 
have  terrible  hours  the  start." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  sternly  for- 
ward. Then  he  began  again,  and  as  he  spoke,  his 
iron  gray  edged  on  with  a  looser  rein. 

"  It  is  well  you  heard  them ;  it  makes  their 
course  unmistakable.  We  know  we  are  on  thei? 
track.  Seven  or  eight  full  hours  !  It  is  long 
odds  of  a  start.  But  they  are  not  mounted  as 
we  are  mounted.  They  did  not  ride  as  we  shall 
ride.  They  had  a  woman  to  carry,  and  their 
mules  to  drive.  They  will  fear  pursuit,  and  push 
on  without  stopping.  But  we  shall  catch  them  ; 
we  shall  catch  them  before  night,  so  help  us 
God!" 

"You  are  aiming  for  the  mountains?"  I 
asked. 

"  For  Luggernel  Alley,"  he  said. 

I  remembered  how,  in  our  very  first  interview, 
a  thousand  miles  away  at  the  Fulano  mine,  he 
had  spoken  of  tliis  spot.  All  the  conversation 
then,  all  the  talk  about  my  horse,  came  back  to 
me  like  a  Delphic  prophecy  suddenly  fulfilled. 
I  made  a  good  omen  of  this  remembrance. 

"  For  Luggernel  Alley,"  said  Brent.  "  Do 
you  recollect  my  pointing   out  a  notch  in  the 

9* 


202  JOHN  BRENT. 

Sierra,  yesterday,  when  I  said  I  would  like  to 
spend  a  honeymoon  there,  if  I  could  find  a 
woman  brave  enough  for  this  plains'  life  ?  " 

He  grew  very  white  as  he  spoke,  and  again 
Pumps  led  off  by  a  neck,  we  ranging  up  in- 
stantly. 

"They  will  make  for  the  Luggernel  Springs. 
The  Alley  is  the  only  gate  through  the  moun- 
tains towards  the  Arkansaw.  If  they  can  get 
by  there,  they  are  safe.  They  can  strike  off 
New  Mexico  way ;  or  keep  on  to  the  States  out 
of  the  line  of  emigration  or  any  Mormon  pursuit. 
The  Springs  arc  the  only  water  to  be  had  at  this 
season,  without  digging,  anywhere  in  that  quar- 
ter. They  must  go  there.  We  are  no  farther 
from  the  spot  than  we  were  at  Bridger.  We 
have  been  travelling  along  the  base  of  the  tri- 
angle. We  have  only  lost  time.  And,  now  that 
we  are  fairly  under  way,  I  think  we  might  shake 
out  another  reef.  A  little  faster,  friends,  —  a 
little  faster  yet !  " 

It  was  a  vast  desert  level  where  we  were 
riding.  Here  and  there  a  scanty  tuft  of  grass 
appeared,  to  prove  that  Nature  had  tried  her 
benign  experiment,  and  wafted  seeds  hither  to 
let  the  scene  be  verdant,  if  it  would.  Nature 
had  failed.  The  land  refused  any  mantle  over 
its  brown  desolation.  The  soil  was  disintegrated, 
igneous  rock,  fine  and  well  beaten  down  as  the 
most  thoroughly  laid  Macadam. 


A   GALLOP   OF   THREE.  203 

Behind  was  the  rolling  region  where  the  Great 
Trail  passes ;  before  and  far  away,  the  faint  blue 
of  the  Sierra.  Not  a  bird  sang  in  the  hot  noon  ; 
not  a  cricket  chirped.  No  sound  except  the  beat 
of  our  horses'  hoofs  on  the  pavement.  We  rode 
side  by  side,  taking  our  strides  together.  It  was 
a  waiting  race.  The  horses  travelled  easily. 
They  learned,  as  a  horse  with  a  self-possessed 
rider  will,  that  they  were  not  to  waste  strength 
in  rushes.  "  Spend,  but  waste  not," — not  a  step, 
not  a  breath,  in  that  gallop  for  life  !  Tliis  must 
be  our  motto. 

We  three  rode  abreast  over  the  sere  brown 
plain  on  our  gallop  to  save  and  to  slay. 

Far  —  ah,  how  terribly  dim  and  distant !  —  was 
the  Sierra,  a  slowly  lifting  cloud.  Slowly,  slowly 
they  lifted,  those  gracious  heights,  while  we  sped 
over  the  harsh  levels  of  the  desert.  Harsh  lev- 
els, abandoned  or  unvisited  by  verdancy.  But 
better  so ;  there  was  no  long  herbage  to  check 
our  great  pace  over  the  smooth  race-course ;  no 
thickets  here  to  baffle  us ;  no  forests  to  mislead. 

We  galloped  abreast, — Armstrong  at  the  right. 
His  weird,  gaunt  white  held  his  own  with  the 
best  of  us.  No  whip,  no  spur,  for  that  deathly 
creature.  He  went  as  if  his  master's  purpose 
were  stirring  him  through  and  through.  That 
stern  intent  made  his  sinews  steel,  and  put  an 
agony  of  power  into  every  stride.    The  man  never 


204  JOHN   BRENT. 

stirred,  save  sometimes  to  put  a  hand  to  tlial 
bloody  blanket  bandage  across  his  head  and  tem- 
ple. He  had  told  his  story,  he  had  spoken  his 
errand,  lie  breathed  not  a  word ;  but  with  his 
lean,  pallid  face  set  hard,  his  gentle  blue  eyes 
scourged  of  their  kindliness,  and  fixed  upon  those 
distant  mountains  where  his  vengeance  lay,  he 
rode  on  like  a  relentless  fate. 

Next  in  the  line  I  galloped.  0  my  glorious 
black !  The  great,  killing  pace  seemed  mere 
playful  canter  to  him,  —  such  as  one  might  ride 
beside  a  timid  girl,  thrilling  with  her  first  free 
dash  over  a  flowery  common,  or  a  golden  beach 
between  sea  and  shore.  But  from  time  to  time 
he  surged  a  little  forward  with  his  great  shoul- 
ders, and  gave  a  mighty  writhe  of  his  body,  while 
his  hind  legs  came  lifting  his  flanks  under  me,  and 
telling  of  the  giant  reserve  of  speed  and  power 
he  kept  easily  controlled.  Then  his  ear  would 
go  back,  and  his  large  brown  eye,  with  its  purple- 
black  pupil,  would  look  round  at  my  bridle  hand 
and  then  into  my  eye,  saying  as  well  as  words 
could  have  said  it,  "  This  is  mere  sport,  my 
friend  and  master.  You  do  not  know  me.  I 
have  stuff  in  me  that  you  do  not  dream.  Say 
the  word,  and  I  can  double  this,  treble  it.  Say 
the  word !  let  me  show  you  how  I  can  spurn  the 
earth."  Then,  with  the  lightest  love  pressure 
on  the  snaffle,  I  would  say,  "  Not  yet !  not  yet ! 


A   GALLOP    OF   THREE.  20-5 

Patieuce,  my  noble  friend !  Your  time  will 
come." 

At  the  left  rode  Brent,  our  leader.  He  knew 
the  region  ;  he  made  the  plan  ;  he  had  the  hope  ; 
his  was  the  ruling  passion,  —  stronger  than  broth- 
erhood, than  revenge.  Love  made  him  leader 
of  that  galloping  three.  His  iron-gray  went 
grandly,  with  white  mane  flapping  the  air  like 
a  signal-flag  of  reprieve.  Eager  hope  and  kin- 
dling purpose  made  the  rider's  face  more  beau- 
tiful than  ever.  He  seemed  to  behold  Sidney's 
motto  written  on  the  golden  haze  before  him, 
"  Viam  aut  inveniam  aut  faciam.''^  I  felt  my 
heart  grow  great,  when  I  looked  at  his  calm  fea- 
tures, and  caught  his  assuring  smile,  —  a  gay 
smile  but  for  the  dark,  fateful  resolve  beneath  it. 
And  when  he  launched  some  stirrins;  word  of 
cheer,  and  shook  another  ten  of  seconds  out  of 
the  gray's  mile,  even  Armstrong's  countenance 
grew  less  deathly,  as  he  turned  to  our  leader  in 
silent  response.  Brent  looked  a  fit  chieftain  for 
such  a  wild  charge  over  the  desert  waste,  with 
his  buckskin  hunting-shirt  and  leggins  with  flar- 
ing fringes,  his  otter  cap  and  eagle's  plume,  his 
bronzed  face,  with  its  close,  brown  beard,  his 
elate  head,  and  his  seat  like  a  centaur. 

So  we  galloped  three  abreast,  neck  and  neck, 
hoof  with  hoof,  steadily  quickening  our  pace  over 
tlie  sere  width  of  desert.     We  must  make  the 


206  JOHN   BRENT. 

most  of  the  levels.  Rougher  work,  cruel  obsta- 
cles were  before.  All  the  wild,  triumphant  mu- 
sic I  had  ever  heard  came  aud  sang  in  mj  ears 
to  the  flinging  cadence  of  the  resonant  feet, 
tramping  on  hollow  arches  of  the  volcanic  rock, 
over  great,  vacant  chasms  underneath.  Sweet 
and  soft  around  us  melted  the  hazy  air  of  Octo- 
ber, and  its  warm,  flickering  currents  shook  like 
a  veil  of  gauzy  gold,  between  us  and  the  blue 
bloom  of  the  mountains  far  away,  but  nearing 
now  and  lifting  step  by  step. 

On  we  galloped,  the  avenger,  the  fiiend,  the 
lover,  on  our  errand,  to  save  and  to  slay. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


FASTER. 


It  came  afternoon,  as  we  rode  on  steadily. 
The  country  grew  rougher.  The  horses  never 
flinched,  but  they  sweated  freely,  and  foam  from 
their  nostrils  flecked  their  shoulders.  By  and  by, 
with  little  pleasant  admonitory  puffs,  a  breeze 
drew  down  from  the  glimmering  frosty  edges  of 
the  Sierra  and  cooled  us.  Horses  and  men  were 
cheered  and  freshened,  and  lifted  anew  to  their 
work. 

We  had  seen  and  heard  no  life  on  the  desert. 
Now  in  the  broken  country,  a  cayote  or  two  scut- 
tled away  as  we  passed.  Sometimes  a  lean  gray 
wolf  would  skulk  out  of  a  brake,  canter  after  us 
a  little  way,  and  then  squat  on  his  haunches, 
staring  at  our  strange  speed.  Flight  and  chase 
he  could  understand,  but  ours  was  not  flight  for 
safety,  or  chase  for  food.  Men  are  queer  mys- 
teries to  beasts.  So  our  next  companions  found. 
Over  the  edge  of  a  slope,  bending  away  to  a  val- 
ley of  dry  scanty  pasture  at  the  left,  a  herd  of 
antelopes    appeared.      They   were    close   to   us, 


k 


208  JOHN   BEENT. 


within  easy  revolver  shot.  They  sprang  into 
graceful  flight,  some  score  of  them,  with  tails  up 
and  black  hoofs  glancing.  Presently,  pausing  for 
curiosity,  they  saw  that  we  fled,  73 ot  followed,  and 
they  in  turn  became  pursuers,  careering  after  us 
for  a  mile  or  more,  until  our  stern  business  left 
their  gambolling  play  far  behind. 

We  held  steadily  for  that  notch  in  the  blue 
Sierra.  The  mountain  lines  grew  sharper ;  the 
country  where  we  travelled,  rougher,  every  stride. 
We  came  upon  a  wide  tract  covered  with  wild- 
sage  bushes.  These  delayed  and  baffled  us.  It 
was  a  pigmy  forest  of  trees,  mature  and  complete, 
but  no  higher  than  the  knee.  Every  dwarfed, 
stunted,  gnarled  bush,  had  the  trunk,  limbs,  twigs, 
and  gray,  withered  foliage,  all  in  miniature,  of 
some  tree,  hapless  but  sturdy,  that  has  had  a 
weatherbeaten  struggle  for  life  on  a  storm-threshed 
crag  by  the  shore,  or  on  a  granite  side  of  a  moun- 
tain, with  short  allowance  of  soil  to  eat  and  water 
to  drink.  Myriads  of  square  miles  of  that  arid 
region  have  no  important  vegetation  except  this 
wild-sage,  or  Artemisia,  and  a  meaner  brother,  not 
even  good  to  burn,  the  greasewood. 

One  may  ride  through  the  tearing  thickets  of 
a  forest  primeval,  as  one  may  shoulder  through 
a  crowd  of  civilized  barbarians  at  a  spectacle. 
Our  gallop  over  the  top  of  this  pigmy  wood  was 
as  difficult  as  to  find  passage  over  the  heads  of 


FASTEK.  209 

the  same  crowd,  tall  men  and  short,  men  hatted 
with  slouched  hats,  wash-bowls,  and  stove-pipes. 
It  was  a  rough  scramble.  It  checked  our  speed 
and  chafed  our  horses.  Sometimes  we  could 
find  natural  pathways  for  a  few  rods.  Then 
these  strayed  aside  or  closed  up,  and  we  must 
p'unge  straight  on.  We  lost  time  ;  moments 
we  lost,  more  precious  than  if  every  one  were 
marked  by  a  drop  in  a  clepsydra,  and  each  drop 
as  it  fell  changed  itself  and  tinkled  in  the  basin, 
r  priceless  pearl. 

"  It  worries  me,  this  delay,"  I  said  to  Brent. 

"  They  lost  as  much — more  time  than  we,"  he 
said. 

And  he  crowded  on,  more  desperately,  as  a 
man  rides  for  dearer  than  life,  —  as  a  lover  rides 
for  love. 

We  tore  along,  breaking  through  and  over  the 
sage-bushes,  each  man  where  best  he  could. 
Fulano  began  to  show  me  what  leaps  were  in 
him.  I  gave  him  his  head.  No  bridle  would 
have  held  him.  I  kept  my  mastery  by  the  voice, 
or  rather  by  the  perfect  identification  of  his 
will  with  mine.  Our  minds  acted  together. 
"  Save  strength,"  I  still  warned  him,  "  save 
strength,  my  friend,  for  the  moimtains  and  the 
last  leaps!" 

A  little  pathway  in  the  sage-bushes  suddenly 
opened  before  me,  as  a  lane  rifts  in  the  press 

N 


210  JOHN  BRENT. 

of  hurrying  legions  'mid  the  crush  of  a  city  thor 
oughfare.     I  dashed  on  a  hundred  yards  in  ad- 
vance of  my  comrades. 

What  was  this  ?  The  bushes  trampled  and 
broken  down,  just  as  we  in  our  passage  were 
trampling  and  breaking  them.     What  ? 

Hoof-marks  in  the  dust ! 

"  The  trail !  "  I  cried,  "  the  trail !  " 

They  sprang  toward  me.  Brent  followed  the 
line  with  his  eye.  He  galloped  forward,  with  a 
look  of  triumph. 

Suddenly  I  saw  him  fling  himself  half  out  of 
his  saddle,  and  clutch  at  some  object.  Still  going 
at  speed,  and  holding  on  by  one  leg  alone,  after 
the  Indian  fashion  for  sport  or  shelter  against 
an  arrow  or  a  shot,  he  picked  up  something 
from  the  bushes,  regained  his  seat,  and  waved 
his  treasure  to  us.  We  ranged  up  and  rode 
beside  him  over  a  gap  in  the  sage. 

A  lady's  glove  !  —  that  was  what  he  had 
stooped  to  recover.  An  old  buckskin  riding 
gauntlet,  neatly  stitched  about  the  wrist,  and 
pinked  on  the  wristlet.  A  pretty  glove,  strange- 
ly, almost  tragically,  feminine  in  this  desolation. 
A  well-worn  glove,  that  had  seen  better  days, 
like  its  mistress,  but  never  auy  day  so  good  as 
this,  when  it  proved  to  us  that  we  were .  on  the 
sure  path  of  rescue. 

"  I  take  up  the  gauntlet,"  said  Brent.  '■"  Gare 
a  qui  le  touche  !  " 


FASTER.  211 

We  said  notliing  more ;  for  this  unconscious 
token,  this  silent  cry  for  help,  made  the  danger 
seem  more  closely  imminent.  We  pressed  on. 
No  flincliing  in  any  of  the  horses.  Where  we 
could,  we  were  going  at  speed.  Where  they 
could,  the  horses  kept  side  by  side,  nerving  each 
other.  Companionship  sustained  them  in  that 
terrible  ride. 

And  now  in  front  the  purple  Sierra  was  grow- 
ing brown,  and  rising  up  a  distinct  wall,  cleft 
visibly  with  dell,  gully,  ravine,  and  canon.  The 
saw-teeth  of  the  ridge  defined  themselves  sharply 
into  peak  and  pinnacle.  Broad  fields  of  cool 
snow  gleamed  upon  the  summits. 

We  were  ascending  now  all  the  time  into 
subalpine  regions.  We  crossed  great  sloping 
savannas,  deep  in  dry,  rustling  grass,  where  a 
nation  of  cattle  might  pasture.  We  plunged 
through  broad  wastes  of  hot  sand.  We  flung 
ourselves  down  and  up  the  red  sides  of  water- 
worn  gullies.  We  took  breakneck  leaps  across 
dry  quebradas  in  the  clay.  We  clattered  across 
stony  arroyos,  longing  thirstily  for  the  gush  of 
water  that  had  flowed  there  not  many  months 
before. 

The  trail  was  everywhere  plain.  No  prairie 
craft  was  needed  to  trace  it.  Here  the  chase  had 
gone,  but  a  few  hours  ago ;  here,  across  grassy 
slopes,  trampling  the  grass  as  if  a  mower  had 


212  JOHN   BRENT. 

passed  that  way  ;  here,  ploughing  wearily  through 
the  sand;  here,  treading  the  red,  crumbling  clay  ; 
here,  breaking  down  the  side  of  a  bank ;  here, 
leaving  a  sharp  hoof-track  in  the  dry  mud  of  a 
fled  torrent.  Everywhere  a  straight  path,  point- 
ing for  that  deepening  gap  in  the  Sierra,  Lug- 
gernel  Alley,  the  only  gate  of  escape. 

Brent's  unerring  judgment  had  divined  the 
course  aright.  On  he  led,  charging  along  the 
trail,  as  if  he  were  trampling  already  on  the  car- 
casses of  the  pursued.  On  he  led  and  we  fol- 
lowed, drawing  nearer,  nearer  to  our  goal. 

Our  horses  suffered  bitterly  for  water.  Some 
five  hours  we  had  ridden  without  a  pause.  Not 
one  drop  or  sign  of  water  in  all  that  arid  waste. 
The  torrents  had  poured  along  the  dry  water- 
courses too  hastily  to  let  the  scanty  alders  and 
willows  along  their  line  treasure  up  any  sap 
of  growth.  The  wild-sage  bushes  had  plamly 
never  tasted  fluid  more  plenteous  than  seldom 
dewdrops  doled  out  on  certain  rare  festal  days, 
enough  to  keep  their  meagre  foliage  a  dusty 
gray.  No  pleasant  streamlet  lurked  anywhere 
under  the  long  dry  grass  of  the  savannas. 
The  arroyos  were  parched  and  hot  as  rifts  in 
lava. 

It  became  agonizing  to  listen  to  the  panting 
and  gasping  of  our  horses.  Their  eyes  grew 
staring  and  bloodshot.    We  suffered,  ourselves, 


FASTEK.  213 

hardly  less  than  they.  It  was  cruel  to  press  on. 
But  we  must  hinder  a  crueller  cruelty.  Love 
agamst  Time,  —  Vengeance  against  Time  !  "We 
must  not  flinch  for  any  weak  humanity  to  the 
noble  allies  that  struggled  on  with  us,  without 
one  token  of  resistance. 

Fulano  suffered  least.  He  turned  his  brave 
eye  back,  and  beckoned  me  with  his  ear  to  listen, 
while  he  seemed  to  say :  "  See,  this  is  my  En- 
durance !    I  hold  my  Power  ready  still  to  show." 

And  he  curved  his  proud  neck,  shook  his  mane 
like  a  banner,  and  galloped  the  grandest  of  all. 

We  came  to  a  broad  strip  of  sand,  the  dry  bed 
of  a  mountain-torrent.  The  trail  followed  up 
this  disappointing  path.  Heavy  ploughing  for 
the  tired  horses !  How  would  they  bear  the 
rough  work  down  the  ravine  yet  to  come  ? 

Suddenly  our  leader  pulled  up  and  sprang 
from  the  saddle. 

"  Look !  "  he  cried,  "  how  those  fellows  spent 
their  time,  and  saved  ours.  Thank  Heaven  for 
this  !     We  shall  save  her,  surely,  now." 

It  was  WATER  !  No  need  to  go  back  to  Pindar 
to  know  that  it  was  "  the  Best." 

They  had  dug  a  pit  deep  in  the  thirsty  sand, 
and  found  a  lurking  river  buried  there.  Nature 
never  questioned  what  manner  of  men  they  were 
that  sought.  Murderers  flying  from  vengeance 
and  planning  now  another  villain  outrage,  —  still 


214  JOHN  BRENT. 

impartial  Nature  did  not  change  her  laws  for 
them.  Sunshine,  air,  water,  life,  —  these  boons 
of  hers,  —  she  gave  them  freely.  That  higher 
boon  of  death,  if  they  were  to  receive,  it  must 
be.from  some  other  power,  greater  than  the  un- 
discriminating  force  of  Nature. 

Good  luck  and  good  omen,  this  well  of  water 
in   the   sand !      It   proved   that   our   chase   had 
suffered  as  we,  and  had   been   delayed  as  we. 
Before  they  had  dared  to  pause  and  waste  price- 
less moments  here,  their  horses  must  have  been 
drooping  terribly.     The  pi1»was  nearly  five  feet 
deep.     A  good  hour's  work,  and  no  less,  had 
dug  it   with    such    tools   as   they   could   bring. 
I  almost  laughed  to  think   of  the  two,  slowly 
bailing  out  the  sliding   sand  with  a  tin   plate, 
perhaps,  and  a  frying-pan,  while  a  score  of  miles 
away  upon  the  desert  we  three  were  riding  hard 
upon  their  tracks  to  follow  them  the  fleeter  for 
this  refreshment  they  had  left.     "  Sic  vos  non 
vobis ! "  I  was  ready  to  say  triumphantly ;  but 
then   I   remembered   the   third  figure   in   their 
group,  —  a  woman,  like  a  Sibyl,  growing  calmer 
as  her  peril  grew,  and  succor  seemed  to  with- 
draw.    And  the  pang   of  this  picture  crushed 
back   into   my  heart   any  thoughts  but   a  mad 
anxiety  and  a  frenzy  to  be  driving  on. 

We  drank  thankfully  of  this  well  by  the  way- 
side.    No  gentle  beauty  hereabouts  to  enchant 


FASTER.  21 5 

US  to  delay.  No  grand  old  tree,  the  shelter  and 
the  landmark  of  the  fountain,  proclaimuig  an 
oasis  near.  Nothing  but  bare,  hot  sand.  But 
the  water  was  pure,  cool,  and  bright.  It  had 
come  underground  from  the  Sierra,  and  still  re- 
membered its  parent  snows.  We  drank  and 
were  grateful,  almost  to  the  point  of  pity.  Had 
we  been  but  avengers,  like  Armstrong,  my  friend 
and  I  could  wellnigh  have  felt  mercy  here,  and 
turned  back  pardoning.  But  rescue  was  more 
imperative  than  vengeance.  Our  business  tor- 
tured us,  as  with  tiie  fanged  scourge  of  Tisi- 
phone,  while  we  dallied.  We  grudged  these 
moments  of  refreshment.  Before  night  fell  down 
the  west,  and  night  was  soon  to  be  climbing  up 
the  east,  we  must  overtake,  —  and  then  ? 

I  wiped  the  dust  and  spume  away  from  Fula- 
no's  nostrils  and  breathed  him  a  moment.  Then 
I  let  him  drain  deep,  deliciovis  draughts  from  the 
stirrup-cup.  He  whinnied  thanks  and  undying 
fealty,  —  my  noble  comrade  !  He  drank  like  a 
reveller.  When  I  mounted  again,  he  gave  a 
jubilant  curvet  and  bound.  My  weight  wa?  a 
feather  to  him.  All  those  leagues  of  our  hard, 
hot  gallop  were  nothing. 

The  brown  Sierra  here  was  close  at  hand. 
Its  glittering,  icy  summits,  above  the  dark  and 
sheeny  'walls,  far  above  the  black  phalanxes  of 
clambermg  pines,  stooped  forward  and  hung  over 


216  JOHN   BKENT. 

US  as  we  rode.  We  were  now  at  the  foot  of  the 
range,  where  it  dipped  suddenly  down  upon  the 
plain.  The  gap,  our  goal  all  day,  opened  before 
us,  grand  and  terrible.  Some  giant  force  had 
clutched  the  mountains,  and  riven  them  narrowly 
apart.  The  wild  defile  gaped,  and  then  wound 
away  and  closed,  lost  between  its  mighty  walls, 
a  thousand  feet  high,  and  bearing  two  brother 
pyramids  of  purple  cliffs  aloft  far  above  the 
snow  line.  A  fearful  portal  into  a  scene  of  the 
throes  and  agonies  of  earth !  and  my  excited  eyes 
seemed  to  read,  gilded  ove»  its  entrance,  in  the 
dead  gold  of  that  hazy  October  sunshine,  words 
from  Dante's  inscription, — 

"  Per  me  si  va  tra  la  perduta  gente ; 
Lasciate  ogni  speranza  vol,  ch'  eutrate !  " 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Brent,  speaking  hardly 
above  his  breath.  "  This  is  Luggernel  Alley  at 
last,  thank  God  !  In  an  hour,  if  the  horses  hold 
out,  we  shall  be  at  the  Springs  ;  that  is,  if  we  can 
go  through  this  breakneck  gorge  at  the  same 
pace.  My  horse  began  to  flinch  a  little  before 
the  water.  Perhaps  that  will  set  him  up.  How 
are  yours  ?  " 

"  Fulano  asserts  that  he  has  not  begun  to  show 
himself  yet.  I  may  have  to  carry  you  en  croupe, 
before  we  are  done." 

Armstrong  said   nothing,    but   pointed   impa- 


FASTER.  217 

tiently  down  the  defile.  The  gaunt  white  horse 
moved  on  quicker  at  this  gesture.  He  seemed  a 
tireless  macliine,  not  flesh  and  blood,  —  a  being 
like  his  master,  living  and  actins:  by  the  force 
of  a  purpose  alone. 

Our  chief  led  the  way  into  the  canon. 


10 


CHAPTER   XX. 


A  HOESE. 


Yes,  John  Brent,  you  were  right  when  you 
called  Luggernel  Alley  a  wonder  of  our  conti- 
nent. 

I  remember  it  now,  —  I  only  saw  it  then ;  —  for 
those  strong  scenes  of  nature  assault  the  soul 
whether  it  will  or  no,  fight  in  against  affirmative 
or  negative  resistance,  and  bide  their  time  to  bo 
admitted  as  dominant  over  the  imagination.  It 
seemed  to  me  then  that  I  was  not  noticing  how 
grand  the  precipices,  how  stupendous  the  cleav- 
ages, how  rich  and  gleaming  the  rock  faces  in 
Luggernel  Alley.  My  business  was  not  to  stare 
about,  but  to  look  sharp  and  ride  hard ;  and  I 
did  it. 

Yet  now  I  can  remember,  distinct  as  if  I  beheld 
it,  every  stride  of  that  pass  ;  and  everywhere,  as  I 
recall  foot  after  foot  of  that  fierce  chasm,  I  see 
three  men  with  set  faces,  —  one  deathly  pale  and 
wearing  a  bloody  turban,  —  all  galloping  steadily 
on,  on  an  errand  to  save  and  to  slay. 

Terrible  riding  it  was !  A  pavement  of  slippery, 


A  HORSE.  219 

sheeny  rock ;  great  beds  of  loose  stones ;  barri- 
cades of  mighty  boulders,  where  a  cliff  had  fallen 
an  aeon  ago,  before  the  days  of  the  road-maker 
race  ;  crevices  where  an  unwary  foot  might  catch ; 
wide  rifts  where  a  shaky  horse  might  fall,  or  a 
timid  horseman  drag  him  down.  Terrible  rid- 
ing !  A  pass  where  a  calm  traveller  would  go 
quietly  picking  his  steps,  thankful  if  each  hour 
counted  him  a  safe  mile. 

Terrible  riding !  Madness  to  go  as  we  went ! 
Horse  and  man,  any  moment  either  might  shat- 
ter every  limb.  But  man  and  horse  neither 
can  know  what  he  can  do,  until  he  has  dared  and 
done.  On  we  went,  with  the  old  frenzy  gTowing 
tenser.     Heart  almost  broken  with  eagerness. 

No  whipping  or  spurring.  Our  horses  were 
a  part  of  ourselves.  While  we  could  go,  they 
would  go.  Since  the  water,  they  were  full  of 
leap  again.  Down  in  the  shady  Alley,  too,  even- 
ing had  come  before  its  time.  Noon's  packing 
of  hot  air  had  been  dislodged  by  a  mountain 
breeze  drawing  through.  Horses  and  men  were 
braced  and  cheered  to  their  work ;  and  in  such 
riding  as  that,  the  man  and  the  horse  must  think 
together  and  move  together,  —  eye  and  hand  of 
the  rider  must  choose  and  command,  as  bravely 
as  the  horse  executes.  The  blue  sky  was  over- 
head, the  red  sun  upon  the  castellated  walls  a 
thousand    feet    above   us,   the   purpling   chasm 


220  JOHN   BRENT. 

opened  before.  It  was  late,  these  were  tlie  last 
moments.     But  we  should  save  the  ladj  yet. 

"Yes,"  our  hearts  shouted  to  us, "  we  shall 
save  her  yet." 

An  arroyo,  the  channel  of  a  dry  torrent,  fol- 
lowed the  pass.  It  had  made  its  way  as  water 
does,  not  straightway,  but  by  that  potent  feminine 
method  of  passing  under  the  frowning  front  of  an 
obstacle,  and  leaving  the  dull  rock  staring  there, 
while  the  wild  creature  it  would  have  held  is 
gliding  away  down  the  valley.  This  zigzag  chan- 
nel baffled  us  ;  we  must  leap  it  without  check 
wherever  it  crossed  our  path.  Every  second  now 
was  worth  a  century.  Here  was  the  sign  of 
horses,  passed  but  now.  We  could  not  choose 
ground.  We  must  take  our  leaps  on  that  cruel 
rock  wherever  they  offered. 

Poor  Pumps  ! 

He  had  carried  his  master  so  nobly !  There 
were  so  few  miles  to  do !  He  had  chased  so 
well ;  he  merited  to  be  in  at  the  death. 

Brent  lifted  him  at  a  leap  across  the  arroyo. 

Poor  Pumps ! 

His  hind  feet  slipped  on  the  time-smoothed 
rock.  He  fell  short.  He  plunged  down  a  dozen 
feet  among  the  rough  boulders  of  the  torrent- 
bed.  Brent  was  out  of  the  saddle  almost  before 
he  struck,  raising  him. 

No,  he  would  never  rise  again.     Both  his  fore 


A   HORSE.  221 

legs  were  broken  at  tho  knee.  He  rested  there, 
kneeling  on  the  rocks  where  he  fell. 

Brent  groaned.  The  horse  screamed  horribly, 
horribly,  —  there  is  no  more  agonized  sound,  — 
and  the  scream  went  echoing  high  up  the  cliffs 
where  the  red  sunlight  rested. 

It  costs  a  loving  master  much  to  butcher  his 
brave  and  trusty  horse,  the  half  of  his  knightly 
self;  but  it  costs  him  more  to  hear  him  shriek 
in  such  misery.  Brent  drew  his  pistol  to  put 
poor  Pumps  out  of  pain. 

Armstrong  sprang  down  and  caught  his  hand. 

"  Stop !  "  he  said  in  his  hoarse  whisper. 

He  had  hardly  spoken,  since  we  started.  My 
nerves  were  so  strained,  that  this  mere  ghost  of 
a  sound  rang  through  me  like  a  death  yell,  a 
grisly  cry  of  merciless  and  exultant  vengeance. 
I  seemed  to  hear  its  echoes,  rising  up  and  swelling 
in  a  flood  of  thick  uproar,  until  they  burst  over 
the  summit  of  the  pass  and  were  wasted  in  the 
crannies  of  the  towering  mountain-flanks  above. 

"  Stop  !  "  whispered  Armstrong.  "  No  shoot- 
ing !     They  '11  hear.     The  knife  !  " 

He  held  out  his  knife  to  my  friend. 

Brent  hesitated  one  heart-beat.  Could  he  stain 
his  hand  with  his  faithful  servant's  blood  ? 

Pumps  screamed  again. 

Armstrong  snatched  the  knife  and  drew  it 
across  the  throat  of  the  crippled  horse. 


222  JOHN  BRENT. 

Poor  Pumps !  He  sank  and  died  without  a 
moan.     Noble  martyr  in  the  old,  heroic  cause  ! 

I  caught  the  knife  from  Armstrong.  I  cut  the 
thong  of  my  girth.  The  heavy  California  sad- 
dle, with  its  macheers  and  roll  of  blankets,  fell 
to  the  ground.  I  cut  off  my  spurs.  They  had 
never  yet  touched  Fulano's  flanks.  He  stood 
beside  me  quiet,  but  trembling  to  be  off. 

"  Now  Brent !  up  behind  me ! "  I  whispered,  — 
for  the  awe  of  death  was  upon  us. 

I  mounted.  Brent  sprang  up  behind.  I  ride 
light  for  a  tall  man.  Brent  is  the  slightest  body 
of  an  athlete  I  ever  saw. 

Fulano  stood  steady  till  we  were  firm  in  our 
seats. 

Then  he  tore  down  the  defile. 

Here  was  that  vast  reserve  of  power ;  here  the 
tireless  spirit;  here  the  hoof  striking  true  as  a 
thunderbolt,  where  the  brave  eye  saw  footing ; 
here  that  writhing  agony  of  speed ;  here  the 
great  promise  fulfilled,  the  great  heart  thrilling 
to  mine,  the  grand  body  living  to  the  beating 
heart.     Noble  Fulano ! 

I  rode  with  a  snaffle.  I  left  it  hanging  loose. 
I  did  not  check  or  guide  him.  He  saw  all.  He 
knew  all.     All  was  his  doing. 

We  sat  firm,  clinging  as  we  could,  as  we  must. 
Fulano  dashed  along  the  resounding  pass. 

Armstrong   pressed   after,  —  the  gaunt  white 


A  HOESE.  223 

horse  struggled  to  emulate  his  leader.  Presently 
we  lost  them  behmd  the  curves  of  the  Alley. 
No  other  horse  that  ever  lived  could  have  held 
with  the  black  in  that  headlong  gallop  to  save. 

Over  the  slippery  rocks,  over  the  sheeny  pave- 
ment, plunging  through  the  loose  stones,  stagger- 
ing over  the  barricades,  leapmg  the  arroyo,  down, 
up,  on,  always  on,  —  on  went  the  horse,  we 
clinging  as  we  might. 

It  seemed  one  beat  of  time,  it  seemed  an  eter- 
nity, when  between  the  ring  of  the  hoofs  I  heard 
Brent  whisper  in  my  ear. 

"  We  are  there." 

The  crags  flung  apart,  right  and  left.  I  saw  a 
sylvan  glade.    I  saw  the  gleam  of  gushing  water. 

Fulano  dashed  on,  uncontrollable  ! 

There  they  were,  —  the  Murderers. 

Arrived  but  one  moment ! 

The  lady  still  bound  to  that  pack-mule  brand- 
ed A.  &  A. 

Murker  just  beginning  to  unsaddle. 

Larrap  not  dismounted,  in  chase  of  the  other 
animals  as  they  strayed  to  graze. 

The  men  heard  the  tramp  and  saw  us,  as  we 
sprang  into  the  glade. 

Both  my  hands  were  at  the  bridle. 

Brent,  grasping  my  waist  with  one  arm,  was 
awkward  with  his  pistol. 

Murker  saw  us  first.  He  snatched  his  six-shoot- 
er and  fired. 


224  JOHN  BRENT. 

Brent  sliook  with  a  spasm.  His  pistol  arm 
dropped. 

Before  the  murderer  could  cock  again,  Fulano 

was  upon  him! 

He  was  ridden  down.  He  was  beaten,  tram- 
pled down  upon  the  grass,  —  crushed,  abolished. 

We  disentangled  ourselves  from  the  melee. 

Where  was  the  other? 

The  coward,  without  firing  a  shot,  was  spur- 
ring Armstrong's  Flathead  horse  blindly  up  the 
canon,  whence  we  had  issued. 

We  turned  to  Murker. 

Fulano  was  up  again,  and  stood  there  shudder- 
ing.    But  the  man  ? 

A  hoof  had  battered  in  the  top  of  his  skull ; 
blood  was  gushing  from  his  mouth  ;  his  ribs  were 
broken ;  all  his  body  was  a  trodden,  massacred 
carcass. 

He  breathed  once,  as  we  lifted  him. 

Then  a  tranquil,  childlike  look  stole  over  his 
face,  —  that  well-known  look  of  the  weary  body, 
thankful  that  the  turbulent  soul  has  gone.  Mur- 
ker was  dead. 

Fulano,   and  not  we,  had  been   executioner 
His  was  the  stain  of  blood. 


CHAPTER    XXl. 


LUGGERNEL  SPRINGS. 


"I  AM  shot,"  gasped  Brent,  and  sank  down 
fainting. 

Which  first  ?  the  lady,  or  my  friend,  slain  per- 
haps for  her  sake? 

"  Her !  see  to  her !  "  he  moaned. 

I  unbound  her  from  the  saddle.  I  could  not 
utter  a  word  for  pity.  She  essayed  to  speak  ; 
but  her  lips  only  moved.  She  could  not  change 
her  look.  So  many  hours  hardening  herself  to 
repel,  she  could  not  soften  yet,  even  to  accept 
my  offices  with  a  smile  of  gratitude.  She  was 
cruelly  cramped  by  her  lashings  to  the  rough 
pack-saddle,  rudely  cushioned  with  blankets.  But 
the  horror  had  not  maddened  her ;  the  torture 
had  not  broken  her;  the  dread  of  worse  had 
not  slain  her.  She  was  still  unblenching  and 
indomitable.  And  still  she  seemed  to  rule  her 
fate  with  quiet,  steady  eyes,  —  gray  eyes  with 
violet  lights. 

I  carried  her  a  few  steps  to  the  side  of  a  jubi- 
10*  o 


226  JOHN    BRKNT. 

lant  fouutam  lifting  beneath  a  rock,  and  left  hei 
there  to  Nature,  kindliest  leech. 

Then  I  took  a  cup  of  that  brilliant  water  to 
my  friend,  my  brother. 

"  I  can  die  now,"  he  said  feebly. 

"  There  is  no  death  in  you.  You  have  won 
the  right  to  live.     Keep  a  brave  heart.     Drink !" 

And  in  that  exquisite  spot,  that  fair  glade  of 
the  sparkling  fountains,  I  gave  the  noble  fellow 
long  draughts  of  sweet  refreshment.  The  res- 
cued lady  trailed  herself  across  the  grass  and 
knelt  beside  us.  My  horse,  still  heaving  with 
his  honorable  gallop,  drooped  his  head  over  the 
group.     A  picture  to  be  remembered  ! 

Who  says  that  knighthood  is  no  more  ?  Who 
says  the  days  of  chivalry  are  past?  Who  says 
it,  is  a  losel. 

Brent  was  roughly,  but  not  dangerously,  shot 
along  the  arm.  The  bullet  had  ploughed  an  ugly 
path  along  the  muscles  of  the  fore-arm  and  up- 
per-arm, and  was  lodged  in  the  shoulder.  A  bad 
wound ;  but  no  bones  broken.  If  he  could  but 
have  rest  and  peace  and  surgery!  But  if  not, 
after  the  fever  of  our  day,  after  the  wearing 
anguish  of  our  doubtful  gallop  ;  if  not  ?  — 

Ellen  Clitheroe  revived  in  a  moment,  when 
she  saw  another  needed  her  care.  Woman's 
gentle  duty  of  nurse  found  her  ready  for  its 
offices.     My  blundering  good-will  gave  place  will- 


LUGGERNEL   SPREsIGS.  227 

mgly  to  her  fiue-fiugered  skilfulness.  She  forgot, 
her  own  weariness,  while  she  was  magnetizing 
away  the  pangs  of  the  wounded  man  by  her 
deKcate  touch. 

He  looked  at  me,  and  smiled  with  total  content. 

"  My  father  ? "  asked  the  lady,  faintly,  as  if  she 
dreaded  the  answer. 

"  Safe  !  "  said  I.  "  Free  from  the  Mormons. 
He  is  waiting  for  you  with  a  friend." 

Her  tears  began  to  flow.  She  was  busy  ban- 
daging the  wound.  All  was  silent  about  us,  ex- 
cept the  pleasant  gurgle  of  the  fountains,  when 
we  heard  a  shot  up  the  defile. 

The  sharp  sound  of  a  pistol-shot  came  leaping 
down  the  narrow  chasm,  flying  before  the  pur- 
suit of  its  own  thundering  echoes.  Those  grand 
old  walls  of  the  Alley,  facing  each  other  there 
for  the  shade  and  sunshine  of  long,  peaceful 
a3ons,  gilded  by  the  glow  of  countless  summers, 
splashed  with  the  gray  of  antique  lichens  on  their 
purple  fronts,  draped  for  unnumbered  Octobers 
with  the  scarlet  wreaths  of  frost-ripened  trail- 
ers, —  those  solemn  walls  standing  there  in  old 
silence,  unbroken  save  by  the  uproar  of  winter 
floods,  or  by  the  Immming  flight  of  summer 
winds,  or  the  louder  march  of  tempests  crowding 
on,  —  those  silent  walls,  written  close  with  the 
record  of  God's  handiwork  in  the  long  cycles  of 
creation,  lifted  up  their  indignant  voices  when 


228  JOHN  BRENT. 

the  shot  within  proclaimed  to  them  the  undying 
warfare  of  man  with  man,  and,  roaring  after, 
they  hurled  that  murderous  noise  forth  from 
their  presence.  The  quick  report  sprang  out 
from  the  chasm  into  the  quiet  glade,  where  the 
lady  knelt,  bvisy  with  offices  of  mercy,  and  there 
•it  lost  its  vengeful  tone,  and  was  blended  with 
the  rumble  of  the  mingled  rivulets  of  the  springs. 
The  thundering  echoes  paused  within,  slowly 
proclaiming  quiet  up  from  crag  to  crag,  until 
one  after  another  they  whispered  themselves  to 
silence.  No  sound  remained,  save  the  rumble 
of  the  stream,  as  it  flowed  away  down  the  open- 
ing valley  into  the  haze,  violet  under  gold,  of 
that  warm  October  sunset. 

I  sprang  up  when  I  heard  the  shot,  and  stood 
on  the  alert.  There  were  two  up  the  Alley; 
which,  after  the  shot,  was  living,  and  which 
dead? 

Not  many  moments  had  passed,  when  I  heard 
hoofs  coming,  and  Armstrong  rode  into  view. 
The  gaunt  white  horse  galloped  with  the  long, 
careless  fling  I  had  noticed  all  day.  He  moved 
machine-like,  as  if  without  choice  or  volition  of 
his  own,  a  horse  commissioned  to  carry  a  Fate. 
Larrap's  stolen  horse  trotted  along  by  his  old 
master. 

Armstrong  glanced  at  Murker's  body  lying 
there,  a  battered  mass. 


LUGGERNEL   SPRINGS.  .229 

"  Both !  "  he  whispered.  "  The  other  was 
sent  right  into  my  hands  to  be  put  to  death. 
I  knew  all  the  time  it  would  be  sent  to  me  to 
do  killing.  He  was  spurring  up  the  Alley  on 
my  own  horse.  He  snapped  at  me.  My  pistol 
did  not  know  how  to  snap.     See  here ! " 

And  he  showed  me,  hanging  from  his  saddle- 
horn,  that  loathliest  of  all  objects  a  man's  eyes 
ever  lighted  upon,  a  fresh  scalp.  It  sickened 
me. 

"  Shame  !  "  said  I.  "  Do  you  call  yourself  a 
man,  to  bring  such  a  thing  into  a  lady's  pres- 
ence ?  " 

"It  was  rather  mean  to  take  the  fellow's 
hair,"  says  Armstrong.  "  I  don't  believe  broth- 
er Bill  would  have  did  it.  But  I  felt  orful  ugly, 
when  I  saw  that  fat,  low-lived  devil,  and  thought 
of  my  brother,  a  big,  hul-hearted  man  as  never 
gave  a  bad  word  to  nobody,  and  never  held  on 
to  a  dollar  or  a  slug  when  ayry  man  wanted  it 
more  'n  him.  Come,  I  '11  throw  the  nasty  thing 
away,  if  you  say  so." 

"  Help  me  drag  off  this  corpse,  and  we  '11  bury 
man  and  scalp  together,"  I  said. 

We  buried  him  at  the  gate  of  the  Alley,  under 
a  great  cairn  of  stones. 

"  God  forgive  them  both,"  said  I,  as  I  flung 
the  last  stone,  "  that  they  were  brutes,  and  not 
men." 


230  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  Brutes  they  was,  stranger,"  says  Armstrong , 
"but  these  thhigs  is  ordered  somehow.  I  al- 
low your  pardener  and  you  is  glad  to  get  that 
gal  out  of  a  Mormon  camp,  ef  it  did  cost  him  a 
horse  and  both  on  you  an  all  day's  tremble. 
Men  don't  ride  so  hard,  and  look  so  wolfish,  as 
you  two  men  have  did,  onless  their  heart  is  into 
it." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  strange,"  said  I,  rather  think- 
ing aloud  than  addressing  my  companion,  "  that 
this  brute  force  should  have  achieved  for  us  by 
outrage  what  love  failed  in.  Pate  seems  to  have 
played  Brute  against  Brute,  that  Love  might 
step  between  and  claim  the  victory.  The  lady 
is  safe  ;  but  the  lover  may  have  won  her  life  and 
lost  his  own." 

"  Look  here,  stranger,"  says  Armstrong,  "  part 
of  this  is  yourn,"  pointing  to  the  money-belt, 
which,  with  the  dead  man's  knife  and  pistol,  he 
had  taken  from  the  corpse.  "  Halves  of  this 
and  the  other  fellow's  plunder  belongs  to  your 
party." 

I  suppose  I  looked  disgusted ;  yet  I  have  seen 
gentle  ladies  wearing  boastfully  brooches  that 
their  favorite  heroes  had  taken  from  Christian 
men  dead  on  the  field  at  Inkermann,  and  shawls 
of  the  loot  of  Delhi  cover  many  shoulders  that 
would  shudder  over  a  dead  worm. 

"I  'm    not    squimmidge,"    said    Armstrong. 


LUG3ERNEL   SPRINGS.  231 

"  It 's  my  own  aud  my  brother's  money  in  them 
belts.  I  '11  count  that  out,  aud  then,  ef  you  wont 
take  your  part,  I  '11  pass  it  over  to  the  gal's  fa- 
ther. I  allowed  from  signs  ther  was,  that  that 
thar  boss  Mormon  had  about  tuk  the  old  man's 
pile.  Most  likely  these  shiners  they  won  last 
night  is  some  of  the  very  sufferins  Sizzum  got 
from  him.     It  's  right  he  should  hev  'em  back." 

I  acknowledged  the  justice  of  this  restitution. 

"  Now,"  said  Armstrong  again,  "  you  want 
to  stay  by  your  friend  and  the  gal,  so  I  '11  take 
one  of  the  pack  mules  and  fetch  your  two  sad- 
dles along  before  dark  lights  down.  It  was  too 
bad  to  lose  that  iron  gray  ;  but  there  's  more  'n 
two  horses  into  the  hide  of  that  black  of  yourn. 
He  was  the  best  man  of  the  lot  for  the  goin',  the 
savin',  and  the  killin'.  Stranger,  I  've  ben  byin' 
and  sellin'  and  breedin'  kettrypids  ever  since 
I  was  raised  myself;  but  I  allow  I  never  seed 
a  HORSE  till  I  seed  him  lunge  off  with  you  two 
on  his  back." 

Armstrong  rode  up  the  Alley  again.  Another 
man  he  was  since  his  commission  of  vengeance 
had  been  accomplished.  In  those  lawless  wilds, 
vendetta  takes  the  place  of  justice,  becomes  jus- 
tice indeed.  Armstrong,  now  that  his  stern  duty 
was  done,  was  again  the  kindly,  simple  fellow 
nature  made  him,  the  type  of  a  class  between 
pioneer  and  settler,  and  a  strong,  brave,  cflfective 


232  JOHN   BEENT. 

class  it  is.  It  was  the  education,  in  youth,  in 
the  sturdy  habits  of  this  class,  that  made  oui 
Washington  the  manly  chief  he  was. 

I  returned  to  my  friends  by  the  Springs. 

Emerghig  from  the  austere  grandeur  of  ths 
Alley,  dim  with  the  shadows  of  twilight,  thfc 
scene  without  was  doubly  sweet  and  almost  do- 
mestic. The  springs,  four  or  five  in  number, 
and  one  carrying  with  it  a  thread  of  hot  steam, 
sprang  rigorously  out  along  the  bold  edges  of  the 
cliffs.  All  the  ground  was  verdure,  —  green,  ten- 
der, and  brilliant,  a  feast  to  the  eyes  after  long 
staring  over  sere  deserts.  The  wild  creatures  that 
came  there  every  day  for  refreshment,  and  per- 
haps for  intoxication  in  the  aerated  tipple  of  the 
Champagne  Spring,  kept  the  grass  grazed  short 
as  the  turf  of  a  park.  Two  great  spruce-trees, 
each  with  one  foot  under  the  rocks,  and  one 
edging  fountainward,  stood,  pillar  under  pyra- 
mid. Some  wreaths  of  drooping  creepers,  float- 
ing from  the  crags,  had  caught  and  clung,  and 
so  gone  winding  among  the  dark  foliage  of  the 
twin  trees ;  and  now  their  leaves,  ripened  by 
autumn,  shook  amid  the  dusky  green  like  an 
alighting  of  orioles.  Except  for  the  spruces 
posted  against  the  cliffs,  the  grassy  area  of  an 
acre  about  the  springs  was  clear  of  other  growth 
than  grass.  Below,  the  rivulet  disappeared  in 
a  green  thicket,   and  farther   down   were   large 


LUGGEENEL   SPRINGS.  233 

cottonwoods,  and  one  tall  stranger  tree,  the  femi- 
nine presence  of  a  drooping  elm,  as  much  un- 
looked  for  here  as  the  sweet,  delicate  woman 
whom  strange  chances  had  brought  to  dignify 
and  grace  the  spot.  This  stranger  elm  filled  my 
heart  with  infinite  tender  memories  of  home,  and 
of  those  early  boyish  days  when  Brent  and  I 
lay  under  the  Berkeley  College  elms,  or  strayed 
beneath  the  elm-built  arches  up  and  down  the 
avenues  of  that  fair  city  clustered  round  the 
College.  In  those  bright  days,  before  sorrow 
came  to  liim,  or  to  me  my  harsh  necessity,  we 
two  in  brotherhood  had  trained  each  other  to 
high  thoughts  of  courtesy  and  love, — a  dreamed- 
of  love  for  large  heroic  souls  of  women,  when 
our  time  of  full-completed  worthiness  should 
come.  And  his  time  had  come.  And  yet  it 
might  be  that  the  wounded  knight  would  never 
know  his  lady,  as  much  loving  as  beloved ;  it 
might  be  that  he  would  never  find  a  sweeter 
soothing  in  her  touch,  than  the  mere  touch  of 
gratitude  and  common  charity  ;  it  might  be  that 
he  would  fever  away  his  beautiful  life  with  the 
fever  of  his  wound,  and  never  feel  the  holy 
quiet  of  a  lover's  joy  when  the  full  bliss  of  love 
returned  is  his. 

I  gave  a  few  moments  to  the  horses  and  mules. 
They  were  still  to  be  unsaddled.  Healthy  Fu- 
lano  had  found  his  own  way  to  water,  and  now 


234  JOHN   BRElSiT. 

was  feasting  on  the  crisp,  short  grass  along  the 
outlet  of  the  Champagne  Spring,  tickling  his  nose 
with  the  bubbles  of  gas  as  they  sped  by.  Sup, 
Fulano  !  This  spot  was  worth  the  gallop  to  see 
Sup,  Fulano,  the  brave,  and  may  no  stain  of  this 
day's  rigliteous  death-doing  rest  upon  your  guilt- 
less life ! 

Brent  was  lying  under  the  spruces,  drowsing 
with  fatigue,  reaction,  and  loss  of  blood.  Miss 
Clitheroe  sat  by  watching  him.  These  fine  be- 
ings have  an  exquisitely  tenacious  vitality.  The 
happiness  of  release  had  suddenly  kindled  all 
her  life  again.  As  she  rose  to  meet  me,  there 
was  light  in  her  eyes  and  color  in  her  cheeks. 
Her  whole  soul  leaped  up  and  spoke  its  large 
gratitude  in  a  smile. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  she  said ;  and  then,  wijh 
sudden  tearfulness,  "  God  be  thanked  for  youi 
heroism ! " 

"  God  be  thanked !  "  I  repeated.  "  We  have 
been  strangely  selected  and  sent,  -—n^u  from 
England,  my  friend  and  I,  and  my  horse,  the 
hero  of  the  day,  from  the  Pacific,  —  to  interfere 
here  in  each  other's  lives." 

"  It  would  seem  romance,  but  for  the  sharp 
terror  of  this  day,  coming  after  the  long  agony 
of  my  journey  with  my  poor,  errant  father." 

"  A  sharp  terror,  indeed  !  " 

"  But  only  terror !  "   and  a  glow  of  maidenly 


LUGGERKEL   SPEIXGS.  235 

thankfulness  passed  over  her  face.  "  Except  one 
moment  of  rough  usage,  when  I  slipped  away 
my  gag  and  screamed  as  they  carried  me  off, 
those  men  were  considerate  to  me.  They  never 
halted  except  to  dig  a  well  in  the  sand  of  a  river- 
bed. I  learned  from  their  talk  that  they  had 
made  an  attempt  to  steal  your  horses  in  the 
night,  and,  failing,  dreaded  lest  you,  and  espe- 
cially Mr.  Brent,  would  follow  them  close.  So 
they  rode  hard.  They  supposed  that,  when  I  was 
found  missing,  whoever  went  in  pursuit,  and  you 
they  always  feared,  would  lose  time  along  the 
emigrant  road,  searching  eastward." 

"  We  might  have  done  so ;  but  we  had  our- 
selves ridden  off  that  way  in  despair  of  aiding 
you,"  —  and  I  gave  her  a  sketch  of  the  events 
of  the  morning. 

"  It  was  the  hope  of  succor  from  you  that  sus- 
tained me.  After  what  your  friend  said  to  me 
last  evening,  I  knew  he  could  not  abandon  me, 
if  he  had  power  to  act."  And  she  looked  very 
tenderly  at  the  sleeper,  —  a  look  to  repay  him 
for  a  thousand  wounds. 

"  Did  you  find  my  glove  ? "  she  asked. 

"  He  has  it.  That  token  assured  us.  Ah ! 
you  should  have  seen  that  dear  wounded  boy, 
our  leader,  when  he  knew  we  were  not  astray." 

I  continued  my  story  of  our  pursuit,  —  the 
lulling  beat  of  the  stream  undertoning  my  words 


236  JOHN  BRENT. 

in  the  still  twilight.  When  I  came  to  that  last 
wild  burst  of  Fulano,  and  told  how  his  heroic 
charge  had  fulfilled  his  faithful  ardor  of  the  day, 
she  sprang  up,  thrilled  out  of  all  weariness,  and 
ran  to  the  noble  fellow,  where  he  was  taking  his 
dainty  banquet  by  the  brookside. 

She  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  rested 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  Locks  of  her  black 
hair,  escaping  into  curls,  mingled  with  his  mane. 

Presently  Miss  Clitheroe  seemed  to  feel  a 
maidenly  consciousness  that  her  caresses  of  the 
horse  might  remind  the  horse's  master  that  he 
was  not  unworthy  of  a  like  reward.  She  re- 
turned to  my  friend.  He  was  stirring  a  little  in 
pain.  She  busied  herself  about  him  tenderly, 
and  yet  with  a  certain  distance  of  manner,  build 
ing  a  wall  of  delicate  decorum  between  him  and 
herself.  Indeed,  from  the  beginning  of  our  ac- 
quaintance yesterday,  and  now  in  this  meeting 
of  to-day,  she  had  drawn  apart  from  Brent,  and 
frankly  approached  me.  Her  fine  instinct  knew 
the  brother  from  the  lover. 

Armstrong  presently  rode  out  again. 

"When  he  saw  his  brother's  sorrel  horse  feeding 
with  the  others,  he  wept  like  a  child. 

We  two,  the  lady  and  I,  were  greatly  touched. 

"  I  've  got  a  daughter  myself,  to  home  to  the 
Umpqua,"  said  Armstrong,  turning  to  Miss  Cli- 
theroe;   "jest   about  your  settin'   up,   and  jest 


LUGGERNEL   SPRINGS.  237 

about  as  many  corn  shuckius  old.  Ellen  is 
her  name." 

"  Ellen  is  my  name." 

"That's  pretty"  (pooty  he  pronounced  it). 
"  Well,  I  '11  stand  father  to  you,  just  as  ef  you 
was  my  own  gal.  I  know  what  a  gal  in  trouble 
wants  more  'n  young  fellows  can." 

Ellen  Clitheroe  gave  her  hand  to  Armstrong 
in  frank  acceptance  of  his  oifer.  He  became  the 
paternal  element  in  our  party,  —  he  protecting 
her  and  she  humanizing  him. 

We  lighted  our  camp-fire  and  supped  heartily. 
Except  for  Brent's  uneasy  stir  and  unwilling 
moans,  we  might  have  forgotten  the  deadly  busi- 
ness of  that  day. 

We  made  the  wounded  man  comfortable  as 
might  be  with  blankets,  under  the  sheltering 
spruces.  After  all,  if  he  must  be  hurt,  he  could 
not  have  fallen  upon  a  better  hospital  than  the 
pure  open  air  of  this  beautiful  shelter ;  and  surely 
nowhere  was  a  gentler  nurse  than  his. 

Armstrong  and  I  built  the  lady  a  bower,  a  lit- 
tle lodge  of  bushes  from  the  thicket. 

Then  he  and  I  kept  watch  and  watch  beneath 
the  starlight. 

Sleeping  or  waking,  our  souls  and  our  bodies 
thanked  God  for  this  peace  of  a  peaceful  night, 
after  the  terror  and  tramp  and  battle  of  that 
trembling  day. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


CHAMPAGNE. 


How  soundly  I  slept,  in  my  sleeping  hours, 
after  our  great  victory,  —  Courage  over  Space, 
Hope  over  Time,  Love  over  Brutality,  the  Heav- 
enly Powers  over  the  Demon  Forces ! 

I  sprang  up,  after  my  last  morning  slumber, 
with  vitality  enough  for  my  wounded  friend  and 
myself.  I  felt  that  I  could  carry  double  responsi- 
bility, as  Fulano  had  carried  double  weight.  God 
has  given  me  the  blessing  of  a  great,  vigorous 
life.  My  body  has  always  been  a  perfect  machine 
for  my  mind's  work,  such  as  that  may  be ;  and 
never  a  better  machine,  with  every  valve,  crank, 
joint,  and  journal  in  good  order,  than  on  that 
dawn  at  Luggernel  Springs. 

If  I  had  not  awaked  alive  from  top  to  toe,  from 
tip  to  tip,  from  end  to  end,  alive  in  muscle, 
nerve,  and  brain,  the  Luggernel  Champagne 
Spring  would  have  put  life  into  me. 

Champagne  of  Rheims  and  Epernay  !     Bah  ! 

Avaunt,  Veuve  Clicquot,  thou  elderly  Hebe  ! 
Avaunt,  with  thy  besugared,begassed,  bedevilled, 


CHAMPAGNE.  239 

becorked,  bewired,  poptious  manufacture  !  Some 
day,  at  a  dull  dinner-party,  I  will  think  of  thee 
and  poison  myself  with  thy  poison,  that  I  may  be- 
come deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  vulgar  woman  to 
whom  some  fatal  hostess  may  consign  me.  But 
now  let  no  thought  of  Champagne,  even  of  that 
which  the  Yeuve  may  keep  for  her  moment  most 
lacrymose  of  "  veuvage,"  interfere  with  my  re- 
membrance of  the  Luggernel  Spring. 

Champagne  to  that !  More  justly  a  Satyr  to 
Hyperion  ;  a  stage-moon  to  Luna  herself ;  an  Old- 
World  peach  to  a  peach  of  New  Jersey ;  a  Dem- 
ocratic Platform  to  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence ;  a  pinching,  varnished  boot  to  a  winged 
sandal  of  Mercury ;  Faustina  to  Charlotte  Corday ; 
a  senatorial  speech  to  a  speech  of  Wendell  Phil- 
lips ;  anything  crude,  base,  and  sham  to  anything 
fine,  fresh,  and  true. 

Ah,  poor  Kissingen !  Alas,  unfragrant  Sha- 
ron !  Alack,  stale  Saratoga !  Ichabod !  Adieu 
to  you  all  when  the  world  knows  the  virtues  of 
Luggernel ! 

But  never  when  the  0-fortunatus-nimium  world 
has  come  into  this  new  portion  of  its  heritage, — 
never  when  Luggernel  is  renowned  and  fashion 
blooms  about  its  brim,  —  never  when  gentlemen 
of  the  creamiest  cream  in  the  next  half-century 
offer  to  ladies  as  creamy  beakers  bubbling  full 
of  that  hypernectareous  tipple,  —  never  will  any 


240  JOHN   BRENT. 

finer  body  or  fairer  soul  of  a  woman  be  seen  there 
about  than  her  whom  I  served  that  morning. 
And,  indeed,  among  the  heroic  gentlemen  of  the 
riper  time  to  come,  I  cannot  dream  that  any  will 
surpass  in  all  the  virtues  and  courtesies  of  the 
cavalier  my  friend  John  Brent,  now  dismounted 
and  lying  there  wounded  and  patient. 

Oranges  before  breakfast  are  good.  There  be 
who  on  awakening  gasp  for  the  cocktail.  And 
others,  who,  fuddled  last  night,  are  limp  in  their 
lazy  beds,  till  soda-water  lends  them  its  fizzle. 
Eye-openers  these  of  moderate  calibre.  But,  with 
all  the  vigorous  vitality  I  have  claimed,  perhaps 
I  might  still  have  remembered  yesterday  with 
its  Gallop  of  Three,  its  suspense,  its  eager  dash 
and  its  certainty,  and  remembered  them  with 
new  anxieties  for  to-day,  except  for  my  morning 
draught  of  exhilaration  from  the  unbottled,  un- 
mixed sources  of  Luggernel.  Thanks  La  Gre- 
nouille,  rover  of  the  wilderness,  for  thy  froggish 
instinct  and  this  blissful  discovery  ! 

I  stooped  and  lapped.  Long  ago  Gideon  Ba- 
rakson  recognized  the  thorough-going  braves  be- 
cause they  took  their  water  by  the  throatful,  not 
by  the  palmful.  And  when  I  had  lapped  enough, 
and  let  the  great  bubbles  of  laughing  gas  burst 
in  my  face,  I  took  a  beaker,  —  to  be  sure  it  was 
battered  tin,  ana  had  hung  at  the  belt  of  a  das- 
tard, —  a  beaker  of  that  "  cordial  julep  "  to  my 


CHAMP  AGUE.  241 

friend.  He  was  awake  and  looking  about  him, 
seeking  for  some  one. 

"  Come  to  your  gruel,  old  fellow !  "  said  I. 

He  drank  the  airy  water  and  sat  up  revived. 

"It  is  like  swallowing  the  first  sunbeam  on  the 
crown  of  a  snow-peak,"  he  said. 

Miss  Clitheroe  dawned  upon  us  with  this.  She 
came  forth  from  her  lodge,  fresh  and  full  of 
cheer. 

Brent  stopped  looking  about  for  some  one. 
The  One  had  entered  upon  the  scene. 

I  dipped  for  her  also  that  poetry  in  a  tin  pot. 

"  This,"  said  she,  "  is  finer  balm  than  the 
enchanted  cup  of  Comus ;  never  did  lips  touch  a 
draught 

'  To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst.' 

To-day  my  life  is  worthy  of  this  nepenthe.  My 
dear  friend,  this  is  the  first  night  of  peaceful, 
hopeful  rest  I  have  had,  since  my  poor  father  was 
betrayed  into  liis  delusion.  Thank  you  and  God 
for  it ! " 

And  again  her  eyes  filled  with  happy  tears, 
and  she  knelt  by  her  patient.  While  she  was 
tenderly  and  deftly  renewing  the  bandages,  Arm- 
strong stood  by,  and  inspected  the  wound  in 
silence.  Presently  he  walked  off  and  called  me 
to  help  him  with  our  camp-fire. 

"  Pretty  well  ploughed  up,  that  arm  of  his'n," 
said  he. 

11  V 


242  JOHN  BRENT.  ■ 

"  I  have  seen  amputation  performed  for  less." 

"  Then  I  'm  dum  glad  there  's  no  sawbones 
about.  I  don't  believe  Nater  means  a  man's 
leg  or  arm  to  go,  until  she  breaks  the  solid 
bone,  so  that  it  ain't  to  be  sot  nohow.  But 
what  do  you  allow  to  do  ?  Lamm  ahead  or 
squat  here  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  oldest ;  you  have  most  expe- 
rience ;  I  will  take  your  advice." 

"  October  is  sweet  as  the  smile  of  a  gal  when 
she  hears  that  her  man  has  made  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  off  the  purceeds  of  a  half-acre  of  onions, 
to  the  mines  ;  but  these  yer  fall  storms  is  reg'lar 
Injuns  ;  they  light  down  'thout  sendin'  on  hand- 
bills. We  ought  to  be  p'intin'  for  home  if  we 
can." 

"  But  Brent's  wound !     Can  he  travel  ?  " 

"  Now,  about  that  wound,  there  's  two  ways  of 
lookin'  at  it.  We  ken  stop  here,  or  we  ken  poot 
for  Laramie.  I  allow  that  it  oughter  take  that 
arm  of  his'n  a  month  to  make  itself  right.  Now 
in  a  month  ther  '11  be  p'r'aps  three  feet  of  snow 
whar  we  stand." 

"  We  must  go  on." 

"  Besides,  lookerhere !  Accordin'  to  me  the 
feelin's  mean  suthin',  when  a  man's  got  any. 
He  '11  be  all  the  time  worryin'  about  the  gal  till 
he  gets  her  to  her  father.  It  's  my  judgment 
she'd  better  never  see  the  old  man  agin  ;   but  I 


CHAMPAGNE.  243 

would  n't  want  my  Ellen  to  quit  me,  ef  I  was  an 
unliealthy  gonoph  like  him.  Daughters  ought  to 
stick  closer  'n  twitch-grass  to  their  fathers,  and 
sons  to  their  mothers,  and  she  ain't  one  to  knock 
off  lovin'  anybody  she  's  guv  herself  to  love. 
No,  she  's  one  of  the  stiddy  kind,  —  stiddy  as  the 
stars.  He  knows  that,  that  there  pardener  of 
yourn  knows  it,  and  his  feelin's  won't  give  his 
arm  no  rest  until  she  's  got  the  old  man  to  take 
care  of  and  follow  off  on  his  next  streak.  So 
we  must  poot  for  Laramie,  live  or  die.  Thar  '11 
be  a  doctor  there.  Ef  we  ken  find  the  way,  it 
should  n't  take  us  more  'n  ten  days.  I  '11  poot 
him  on  Bill's  sorrel,  jest  as  gentle  a  horse  as  Bill 
was  that  rode  him,  and  we  '11  see  ef  we  hain't 
worked  out  the  bad  luck  out  of  all  of  us,  for  one 
while." 

Armstrong's  opinion  was  only  my  own,  ex- 
pressed Oregonly.  We  went  on  preparing  break- 
fast. 

"  That  there  A.  &  A.  mule,"  says  Armstrong, 
"  was  Bill's  and  mine,  and  this  stuff  in  the  packs 
was  ours.  I  don't  know  what  the  fellers  did 
with  the  two  mean  mustangs  they  was  ridin' 
when  they  found  us  fust  on  Bear  River,  —  used 
'em  up,  I  reckon." 

Here  Brent  hailed  us  cheerily. 

"  Look  alive  there,  you  two  cooks !  We  idlers 
here  want  to  be  travelling." 


244  JOHN  BEENT. 

"I  told  you  so,"  said  Armstroug.  "He  un- 
derstands this  business  jest  as  well  as  we  do. 
He  '11  go  till  he  draps.  Thar  's  grit  into  him,  ef 
I  know  grit." 

Yes ;  but  when  I  saw  him  sit  still  with  his 
back  agamst  the  spruce-tree,  and  remembered  his 
exuberant  life  of  other  days,  I  desponded.  He 
soon  took  occasion  to  speak  to  me  apart. 

"  Dick,"  said  he,  "  you  see  how  it  is.  I  am 
not  good  for  much.  If  we  were  alone,  you  and 
I  might  settle  here  for  a  month  or  so,  and  write 
'  Bubbles  from  the  Briinnen.'  But  there  is  a  lady 
in  the  case.  It  is  plain  where  she  belongs.  I 
know  every  inch  of  the  way  to  Laramie.  I  can 
take  you  through  in  a  week"  —  he  paused  and 
quavered  a  little,  as  he  continued  —  "if  I  live. 
But  don't  look  so  anxious,     I  shall." 

"  It  would  be  stupid  for  you  to  die  now,  John 
Brent  the  Lover,  with  the  obstacles  cut  away  and 
an  heroic  basis  of  operations." 

"  A  wounded  man,  perhaps  a  dying  man,  has 
no  business  with  love.  I  will  never  present  her 
my  services  and  ask  pay.  But,  Dick,  if  I  should 
wear  out,  you  wiU  know  what  to  say  to  her  for 
me." 

At  this  she  joined  us,  her  face  so  illumined 
with  resolution  and  hope  that  we  both  kindled. 
All  doubt  skulked  away  from  her  presence. 
Brent  was  nerved  to  rise  and  walk  a  few  steps 


CHAJIPAGNE.  245 

to   the    camp-fire,   supported   by   her   arm   and 
mine. 

Armstrong  had  breakfast  ready,  such  as  it  was. 
And  really,  the  brace  of  wood  grouse  he  had 
shot  that  morning,  not  a  hundred  yards  from 
camp,  were  not  unworthy  of  a  lady's  table, 
though  they  had  never  made  journey  in  a 
crowded  box,  over  a  slow  raiboad,  from  Chicago 
to  New  York,  in  a  January  thaw,  and  then  been 
bought  at  half  price  of  a  street  pedler,  a  few 
hours  before  they  dropped  to  pieces. 

We  grouped  to  depart. 

"  I  shall  remember  all  this  for  scores  of 
sketches,"  said  Miss  Clitheroe. 

And  indeed  there  was  material.  The  rocks 
behind  threading  away  and  narrowing  into  the 
dim  gorge  of  the  Alley ;  the  rushing  fountains, 
one  with  its  cloud  of  steam ;  the  two  great 
spruces ;  the  greensward ;  the  thickets ;  and 
above  them  a  far-away  glimpse  of  a  world,  all 
run  to  top  and  flinging  itself  up  into  heaven,  a 
tumult  of  crag  and  pimiacle.  So  much  for  the 
scenery.  And  for  personages,  there  was  Arm- 
sti'ong,  with  his  head  turbaned,  saddling  the 
white  machine  ;  the  two  mules,  packed  and  taking 
their  last  nibbles  of  verdure ;  Miss  Clitheroe,  in 
her  round  hat  and  with  a  green  blanket  rigged 
as  riding-skirt,  mounted  upon  the  sturdy  roan  ; 
Brent  resting  on  my  shoulder,  and  stepping  on 


246  JOHN   BRENT. 

mj  knee,  as  he  climbed  painfully  to  his  seat  on 
the  tall  sorrel ;  Don  Fulano  waiting,  proud  and 
eager.  And  just  as  we  were  starting,  a  stone  fell 
from  overhead  into  the  water ;  and  lookmg  up, 
we  saw  a  bighorn  studying  us  from  the  crags, 
wisliing,  no  doubt,  that  his  monster  horns  were 
ears  to  comprehend  our  dialect. 

I  gave  the  party  their  stirrup-cup  from  the 
Champagne  Spring.  The  waters  gurgled  adieu. 
Rich  sunrise  was  upon  the  purple  gates  of  the 
pass.     We  struck  a  trail  through  the  thicket. 

Good  bye  to  the  Luggernel  Springs  and  Lug- 
gernel  Alley !  to  that  scene  of  tragedy  and  tra- 
gedy escaped ! 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROCKTS. 

I  SHALL  make  short  work  of  our  journey  to 
Laramie. 

We  bent  northeastwardly  by  ways  known  to 
our  leader,  —  alas !  leader  no  more.  He  could 
guide,  but  no  more  gallop  in  front  and  beckon 
on  the  cavalcade. 

It  was  a  grand  journey.  A  wild  one,  and 
rough  for  a  lady.  But  this  lady  was  made  of 
other  stuff  than  the  mistresses  of  lapdogs. 

We  crossed  the  backbone  of  the  continent, 
climbing  up  the  clefts  between  the  ragged  verte- 
bras, and  over  the  top  of  that  meandering  spine, 
fleshed  with  great  grassy  mounds  ;  then  plunging 
down  again  among  the  rifts  and  glens. 

A  brilliant  quartette  ours  would  have  been, 
but  for  my  friend's  wound.  Four  people,  all 
with  fresh  souls  and  large  and  pecuhar  expe- 
rience. 

Except  for  my  friend's  wound  ! 

My  friend,  closer  than  a  brother,  how  I  felt  for 
him  every  mile  of  that  stern  journey !     He  never 


248  JOHN   BRENT. 

complained.  Only  once  he  said  to  me,  "  Bodily 
agony  has  something  to  teach,  I  find,  as  well  as 
mental." 

Never  one  word  of  his  suffering,  except  that. 
He  wore  slowly  away.  Every  day  he  grew  a 
little  weaker  in  body ;  but  every  day  the  strong 
spirit  lifted  the  body  to  its  work.  He  must  live 
to  be  our  guide,  that  he  felt.  He  must  be  cheer- 
ful, gay  even,  lest  the  lady  he  had  saved  should 
too  bitterly  feel  that  her  safety  was  daily  paid 
for  by  his  increasing  agony.  Every  day  that 
ichor  of  love  baptized  him  with  new  life.  He 
breathed  love  and  was  strong.  But  it  was  love 
confined  to  his  own  consciousness.  Wounded, 
and  dying  perhaps,  unless  his  life  could  beat 
time  by  a  day  or  an  hour,  he  would  not  throw 
any  share  of  his  sufiering  on  another,  on  her, 
by  calling  for  the  sympathy  which  a  woman 
gives  to  her  lover. 

Did  she  love  him  ?  Ah !  that  is  the  ancient 
riddle.  Only  the  Sphinx  herself  can  answer. 
Those  fair  faces  of  women,  with  their  tender 
smiles,  their  quick  blushes,  their  starting  tears, 
still  wear  a  mask  until  the  moment  comes  for 
unmasking.  If  she  did  not  love  him,  —  this 
man  of  all  men  most  lovable,  this  feminine  soul 
in  the  body  of  a  hero,  this  man  who  had  spilled 
his  blood  for  her,  whose  whole  history  had 
trained  him  for  those  crowning  hours  of  a  chiv- 


AN  IDYL    OF   THE   ROCKYS.  249 

alric  life  when  the  lover  led  our  Gallop  of  Three  ; 
if  she  did  not  love  him,  she  must  be,  I  thought, 
some  bloodless  creature  of  a  type  other  than 
human,  an  angel  and  no  woman,  a  creature 
not  yet  truly  embodied  into  the  body  of  love 
we  seemed  to  behold. 

She  was  sweetly  tender  to  him ;  but  that  the 
wound,  received  for  her  sake,  merited ;  that  was 
hardly  more  than  the  gracious  thankfulness  she 
lavished  upon  us  all.  What  an  exquisite  wo- 
man !  How  calmly  she  took  her  place,  lofty  and 
serene,  above  all  the  cloudy  atmosphere  of  such 
a  bewildering  life  as  hers  had  been  !  How  large 
and  deep  and  mature  the  charity  she  had  drawn, 
even  so  young,  from  the  strange  contrasts  of  her 
history  !  How  her  keen  observation  of  a  woman 
of  genius  had  grasped  and  stored  away  the  dia- 
mond, or  the  dust  of  diamond,  in  every  drift 
across  her  life ! 

She  grew  more  beautiful  daily.  Those  weary 
days  when,  mile  after  dreary  mile,  the  listless 
march  of  the  Mormon  caravan  bore  her  farther 
and  farther  away  into  hopeless  exile,  were  gone 
forever.  She  breathed  ruddy  hope  now.  Before, 
she  had  filtered  hope  from  every  breath  and  only 
taken  the  thin  diet  of  pale  endurance.  All  fu- 
ture possibility  of  trial,  after  her  great  escape, 
seemed  nothing.  She  was  confident  of  Brent's 
instant  recovery,  with  repose,  and  a  surgeon 
11* 


250  JOHN  BEENT. 

more  skilful  than  she,  at  Fort  Laramie.  She 
was  sure  that  now  her  father's  wandermg  life 
was  over,  and  that  he  would  let  her  find  him  a 
home  and  win  him  a  living  in  some  quiet  region 
of  America,  where  all  his  sickly  fancies  would 
pass  away,  and  his  old  age  would  glide  serenely. 

It  would  be  long,  too  long,  for  the  movement 
of  this  history,  should  I  attempt  to  detail  the 
talks  and  minor  adventures  of  that  trip  by  which 
the  character  of  all  my  companions  became  bet- 
ter known  to  me. 

For  the  wounded  man's  sake  we  made  length- 
ened rests  at  noonday,  and  camped  with  the  ear- 
liest coming  of  twilight.  Those  were  the  moon- 
light nights  of  brilliant  October.  How  strange 
and  solemn  and  shadowy  the  mountains  rose 
about  our  bivouacs !  It  was  the  poetry  of  camp- 
life,  and  to  every  scene  by  a  fountain,  by  a  tor- 
rent, m  a  wild  dell,  on  a  mountain  meadow  with 
a  vision  of  a  snow-peak  watching  us  all  the  starry 
night  and  passing  through  rosiness  into  splendor 
at  sunrise,-— to  every  scene,  stern  or  fair,  our 
comrade  gave  the  poetry  of  a  woman's  presence 
and  a  woman's  fine  perception  of  the  minuter 
charm  of  nature. 

And  then  —  think  of  it !  —  she  had  a  genius 
for  cookery.  I  have  known  this  same  power  in 
other  fine  poetic  and  artistic  beings.  She  had  a 
genius  for  imaginative  cookery,  —  a  rich  inheri- 


AN  IDYI.   OF   TKE   ROCKYS.  251 

tance  from  her  father's  days  of  poverty  and 
coal-mining.  She  insisted  upon  her  share  of 
camp-duty ;  and  her  great  gray  eyes  were  often 
to  be  seen  gravely  fixed  upon  a  frying-pan,  or 
watching  a  roasting  bird,  as  it  twirled  slowly 
before  the  fire,  with  a  strip  of  pork  featly  dis- 
posed overhead  to  baste  that  succulent  revolver ; 
while  Brent,  poor  fellow,  lay  upon  the  grass, 
wrapped  in  blankets,  slowly  accumulating  force 
for  the  next  day's  journey,  and  watched  her  with 
wonderment  and  delight  that  she  could  conde- 
scend to  be  a  household  goddess. 

"  Ther  ain't  her  ikwill  to  be  scared  up,"  would 
Armstrong  say  on  these  occasions.  "  I  'm  gittin' 
idees  to  make  my  Ellen  the  head  woman  on 
all  the  Umpqua.  I  wish  I  had  her  along ;  for 
she 's  a  doughcyle  gal,  and  takes  nat'ral  to  pooty 
notions  in  thinkin'  and  behavior  and  fixin'  up 
things  ginerally." 

Armstrong  became  more  and  more  the  pater- 
nal element  in  our  party.  Memory  of  the  Ellen 
on  the  Umpqua  made  him  fatherly  thoughtful  for 
the  Ellen  here,  a  wanderer  across  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  And  she  returned  more  than  he 
gave,  in  the  sweet  civilizing  despotism  of  a  lady. 
That  grizzly  turban  presently  disappeared  from 
his  head.  Decorous  bandages  replaced  it.  With 
that  token  went  from  him  the  sternness.  He 
was  a  frank,  honest,  kindly  fellow,  shrewd  and 


252  JOHN   BRENT. 

unflincliing,  but  one  who  would  never  have  hfted 
his  hand  against  a  human  being  except  for  that 
great,  solemn  duty  of  an  exterminating  ven 
geance.  That  done,  he  was  his  genial  self  again. 
We  never  tired  of  his  tales  of  plains  and  Oregon 
life,  told  in  his  own  vivid  dialect.  He  was  the 
patriarchal  pioneer,  a  man  with  the  personal 
freedom  of  a  nomad,  and  the  unschooled  wis- 
dom of  a  founder  of  states  in  the  wilderness.  A 
mighty  hunter,  too,  was  Armstrong.  No  day 
passed  that  we  did  not  bag  an  antelope,  a  deer, 
or  a  big-horn.  It  was  the  very  land  of  Cocaigne 
for  game.  The  creatures  were  so  hospitable  that 
it  hardly  seemed  proper  gratitude  to  kill  them ; 
even  that  great  brown  she-bear,  who  one  night 
"  popped  her  head  into  the  shop,"  and,  muttering 
something  which  in  the  Bruin  lingo  may  have 
been,  "What!  no  soap!"  smote  Armstrong  with 
a  paw  which  years  of  sucking  had  not  made 
tender. 

Except  for  Brent's  wound,  we  four  might 
have  had  a  joyous  journey,  full  of  the  true  savor 
of  brave  travel.  But  that  ghastly,  murderous 
hurt  of  his  needed  most  skilful  surgery,  and 
needed  most  of  all  repose  with  a  mind  at  peace. 
He  did  not  mend ;  but  all  the  while 

"  The  breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over  him 
Filled  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love." 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE   ROCKYS.  253 

But  he  did  not  mend.  He  wasted  daily.  His 
sleeps  became  deathly  trances.  We  could  not 
wear  him  out  with  haste.  Brave  heart !  he  bore 
up  like  a  brave. 

And  at  last  one  noon  we  drew  out  of  the 
Black  Hills,  and  saw  before  us,  across  the  spurs 
of  Laramie  Peak,  the  broad  plain  of  Fort 
Laramie. 

Brent  revived.  We  rode  steadily.  Just  be- 
fore sunset,  we  pulled  up  at  our  goaL 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

DEAPETOMANIA. 

For  the  last  hour  I  had  ridden  close  to  Brent. 
I  saw  that  it  was  almost  up  with  him.  He 
swayed  in  his  saddle.  His  eye  was  glazed  and 
dull.  But  he  kej^t  his  look  fixed  on  the  little 
group  of  Laramie  Barracks,  and  let  his  horse 
carry  him. 

I  lifted  up  my  heart  in  prayer  that  this  noble 
life  might  not  be  quenched.  He  must  not  die 
now  that  he  was  enlarged  and  sanctified  by  tru- 
est love. 

At  last  we  struck  open  country.  Bill  Arm- 
strong's sorrel  took  a  cradling  lope  ;  we  rode 
through  a  camp  of  Sioux  "  tepees,"  like  so  many 
great  white  foolscaps  ;  we  turned  the  angle  of  a 
great  white  wooden  building,  and  halted.  I 
sprang  from  Fulano,  Brent  quietly  drooped  down 
into  my  arms. 

"  Just  in  time,"  said  a  cheerful,  manly  voice  at 
my  ear. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  I.     "  Is  it  Captain  Ruby  ?  " 


DEAPETOMANIA.  255 

"Yes.  We'll  take  liim  into  my  bed.  Dr. 
Patliie,  here  's  a  patient  for  you." 

We  carried  Brent  in.  As  we  crossed  the  ve- 
randa, I  saw  Miss  Clitheroc's  meeting  with  her 
father.     He  received  her  almost  peevishly. 

We  laid  the  wounded  man  in  Ruby's  hospital 
bed.  Evidently  a  fine  fellow,  Ruby ;  and,  what 
was  to  the  point,  fond  of  John  Brent. 

Dr.  Pathie  shook  his  head. 

So  surgeons  are  wont  to  do  when  they  study 
sick  men.  It  is  a  tacit  recognition  of  the  dark 
negative  upon  which  they  are  to  turn  the  glim- 
mer of  their  positive,  —  a  recognition  of  the  mys- 
tery of  being.  They  are  to  experiment  upon  life, 
and  their  chief  facts  are  certain  vaguish  theories 
why  some  men  die. 

The  surgeon  shook  his  head.  It  was  a  move- 
ment of  sympathy  for  the  man,  as  a  man.  Then 
he  proceeded  to  consider  him  as  a  machine, 
which  it  was  a  surgeon's  business  to  repair. 
Ruby  and  I  stood  by  anxiously,  while  the  skilled 
craftsman  inspected.  Was  this  insensible,  but 
still  breathing  creature,  only  panting  away  the 
last  puffs  of  his  motive  power  ?  or  was  it  capable 
mechanism  still  ? 

"  Critical  case,"  said  Dr.  Pathie,  at  last.  He 
had  great,  umbrageous  eyebrows,  and  a  gentle, 
peremptory  manner,  as  of  one  who  had  done 
much  merciful  cruelty  in  his  day.    "  Ugly  wound. 


256  JOHN  BEENT. 

Never  saw  a  worse  furrow.  Conical  ball.  Kq 
must  have  been  almost  at  the  muzzle  of  the 
pistol.  He  ought  not  to  have  stirred  for  a 
month.  How  he  has  borne  such  a  journey  with 
that  arm,  I  cannot  conceive.  Strong  character, 
eh  ?  Passionate  young  fellow  ?  Life  means 
something  to  him.  Well,  Nature  nominates  such 
men  to  get  into  scrapes  for  other  people ;  she 
gets  them  wounded,  and  drains  them  of  their 
blood.  Lying  on  their  backs  is  good  for  them, 
and  so  is  feeling  weak.  They  take  in  more  emo- 
tion than  they  can  assimilate  while  they  are  wide 
awake.  They  would  go  frenzied  with  over- 
crowded brain,  if  they  were  not  shut  up  into 
themselves  sometimes,  by  sickness  or  sorrow. 
There  's  not  much  to  do  for  him.  A  very  neat 
hand  has  been  at  his  bandages.  Now,  if  he  is  a 
man  with  a  distinct  and  controlling  purpose  in 
his  life,  —  if  he  has  words  to  say,  or  deeds,  or 
duties  to  do,  and  knows  it,  —  he  will  hold  by  his 
life  ;  if  not,  not.  Keep  him  quiet.  And  do  not 
let  him  see,  or  hear,  or  feel  the  presence  of  that 
beautiful  young  woman.  She  is  not  his  sister, 
and  she  will  have  too  much  trouble  herself  to  be 
a  tranquil  nurse  for  him  here." 

I  left  him  with  his  patient,  and  went  out  to 
care  for  our  horses.  Ruby,  model  host;,  had 
saved  me  all  trouble. 

"  I  have  given  Miss  Clitheroe  my  sole  guest 


DRAPETOMANIA.  257 

chamber,"  he  said.  "  She  has  a  lady's-maid  in 
the  brawny  person  of  an  Irish  corporaless.  What 
a  transcendent  being  she  is  !  I  don't  wonder 
Brent  loves  her,  as  I  divined  he  did  from  what 
Jake  Sliamberlain  —  slirewd  fellow  Jake  —  said 
when  he  consigned  the  father  to  me." 

"  I  must  have  a  talk  with  the  old  gentleman. 
0,  there  he  is  with  Armstrong." 

Armstrong  was  handing  him  the  money-belt. 
His  eyes  gleamed  as  he  clutched  it. 

"  Walk  off  with  me  a  step,"  said  Ruby,  "  be- 
fore you  speak  to  him." 

We  strolled  off  through  the  Sioux  encamp- 
ment. The  warriors,  tall  fellows  with  lithe 
forms,  togaed  in  white  blankets,  were  smoking 
in  a  circle.  Only  the  great  chiefs  were  in  tog- 
gery of  old  uniforms,  blossoming  into  brass  but- 
tons wherever  a  button  could  bourgeon.  And 
only  the  great  chiefs  resembled  frowzy  scare- 
crows. The  women,  melancholy,  as  the  abused 
women  of  barbarians  always  are,  were  slouching 
about  at  slave  work.  All  greeted  Ruby  as  s 
friend,  with  sonorous  grunts. 

Society,  even  of  Sioux,  dwelUng  under  buffalo 
hide  foolscaps,  was  humane  after  our  journey 
The  barracks  of  Laramie,  lonely  outpost  on  a 
bleak  plain,  were  fairly  beautiful  in  their  home- 
like homeliness.  Man  without  a  roof  is  mcro 
chaos. 


258  JOHN   BKENT. 

"  Trouble  in  store,  I  fear,"  said  Captain  Ruby, 
"  for  Mr.  Clitheroe  and  all  who  care  for  him." 

"  He  ought  to  be  at  peace  at  last." 

"  He  is  not.  Dr.  Pathie  says  he  is  a  case  of 
Drapetomania." 

"  I  have  heard  that  outlandish  word  used  to 
express  the  tendency  —  diseased  of  course  —  that 
negroes  have  to  run  away  from  their  masters." 

"  Mr.  Clitheroe  is  wild  to  get  away  from  his 
proper  master,  namely,  himself." 

"  A  desperate  malady !  At  his  age  almost 
fatal." 

"  So  Pathie  says.  When  a  man  of  Mr.  Cli- 
theroe's  age  is  not  at  peace  within,  he  goes  into 
war  with  his  circumstances.  He  cannot  conquer 
them,  so  he  runs  away.  He  has  always  before 
him  a  shadow  of  a  dream  of  what  he  might  have 
been,  and  that  ghost  drives  him  and  chases  him, 
until  it  wears  him  out." 

"  Yes ;  but  it  is  not  only  the  forlorn  and  disap- 
pointed that  this  pitiable  disease  attacks.  Very 
rich  and  prosperous  suffer,  become  drapetoma- 
niacs,  sell  houses  and  build  new,  change  neigh- 
borhoods, travel  furiously,  never  able  to  escape 
from  that  inevitable  companion  of  a  reproaching 
self." 

"  Mr.  Clitheroe  is  chafing  to  be  gone.  I  start 
a  train  for  the  States  to-morrow,  —  the  last  chance 
to  travel  with  escort  this  season,  —  a  small  topo- 


DEAPETOMANIA.  259 

graphical  party  going  back.  He  has  been  for  the 
last  few  days  iu  a  passion  of  impatience,  almost 
scolding  me  and  your  party,  his  daughter,  and 
circumstances,  lest  you  shovild  not  arrive  in  time 
for  him  to  go." 

"  To  go  where  ?     What  does  he  intend  ?  " 

"  He  is  full  of  great  schemes.  I  do  not  know, 
of  course,  anything  of  him  except  what  I  have 
picked  up  from  his  communicativeness  ;  but  you 
would  suppose  him  a  duke  from  his  talk.  He 
speaks  of  his  old  manor-house, — I  should  know 
it  by  sight  now,  —  and  says  he  intends  to  repur- 
chase it  and  be  a  great  man  again.  He  is  con- 
stantly inviting  me  to  share  his  new  splendors. 
Really,  his  pictures  of  hfe  in  England  will  quite 
spoil  me  for  another  winter  of  cooling  my  heels 
in  this  dismal  place,  with  a  scalp  on  my  head 
and  a  hundred  Sioux  looking  at  it  hungrily." 

"  He  must  be  deranged  by  his  troubles.  I  am 
sure  he  has  no  basis  for  any  hopes  in  England. 
Sizzum  stripped  him.  He  has  alienated  his 
friends  at  home.  His  daughter  is  his  only  friend 
and  guardian,  except  ourselves." 

"  He  sprang  up  when  he  saw  you  coming,  and 
was  frantic  with  joy,  —  not  for  his  daughter's 
safety,  but  because  he  could  start  with  the  train 
to-morrow.  I  suppose  she  is  a  tested  traveller 
by  this  time." 

"  As  tlioroughly  as  any  man  on  the  plains." 


260  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  She  can  go  very  comfortably  in  the  train. 
Two  or  three  soldiers'  ^vives  go.  Females,  I  be< 
lieve  ;  at  least  their  toggery  alleges  the  softer  sex, 
"whatever  their  looks  and  voices  do." 

"  The  chance  is  clearly  not  to  be  lost.  I  do 
not  like  to  part  with  my  fascinating  comrade.  It 
was  poetry  to  camp  with  such  a  woman.  Travel 
will  seem  stale  henceforth.  I  wish  we  could 
keep  her,  for  Brent's  sake." 

"  Poor  fellow !  Pathie  looks  very  doubtful. 
You  must  tell  me  your  story  more  fully  after 
supper." 

I  found  Mr.  Clitheroe  in  a  panic  to  be  moving. 
He  thanked  me  in  a  grand  manner  for  our  ser- 
vices. But  he  seemed  willing  to  avoid  me.  He 
could  not  forget  the  pang  of  his  disenchantment 
from  Mormonism.  I  belonged  to  the  dramatis 
personcB  of  a  period  he  would  willingly  banish. 
He  regarded  me  with  a  suspicious  look,  as  if  he 
feared  again  that  my  coming  would  break  up 
new  illusions  as  baseless  as  the  old.  He  was  full 
of  large,  vague  plans.  England  now ;  he  must 
be  back  in  England  again.  His  daughter  must 
be  reinstated  in  her  place.  He  treated  her  cold- 
ly enough  ;  but  still  all  his  thought  seemed  to  be 
ambition  for  her.  The  money  Armstrong  had 
given  him,  too,  seemed  to  increase  his  confidence 
in  the  future.  That  was  wealth  for  the  moment. 
Other  would  come. 


DKAPETOilAMA.  261 

Miss  Clitheroe  had  yielded  to  fatigue.  I  did 
not  see  her  that  night.  In  fact,  after  all  the 
wearing  anxiety  of  our  trip,  I  was  glad  to  lie 
down  on  a  white  buffalo-robe,  with  the  Sybaritic 
luxury  of  a  pair  of  clean  sheets,  and  show  my 
gratitude  to  Ruby  by  twelve  hours'  solid  sleep. 

A  drum-beat  awaked  me  next  morning.  It 
was  not  reveille,  it  was  not  breakfast,  it  was  not 
guard  mounting.  I  sprang  up,  and  looked  from 
the  window.  How  odd  it  seemed  to  peer  from 
a  window,  after  the  unwmdowed  wilderness ! 

The  four  white-hooded  wagons  of  the  little 
homeward  train  were  ready  to  start.  The  drum 
was  calling  in  the  escort.  The  fifty  soldiers  of 
Ruby's  garrison  were  grouped  about,  lending  a 
hand  to  their  luckier  comrades,  homeward  boimd. 
Ruby  was  taking  leave  of  his  brother  officers. 
Aj-mstrong  stood  a  little  apart  with  his  horses. 
A  busy  scene,  and  busier  when  some  vixenish 
pack-mule  shook  heels,  and  scattered  the  by- 
standers into  that  figure  known  to  packers  as 
the  Blazing  Star. 

Aloof  from  the  crowd,  Mr.  Clitheroe  was  strid- 
ing up  and  down  beside  the  wagons,  with  the 
eager,  unobserving  tramp  of  a  man  concerned 
with  nothing  but  a  morbid  purpose  of  his  own. 
He  had  bought  of  some  discharged  soldier  a  long 
military  surtout,  blue-gray,  with  a  cape.  Wear- 
ing this,  he  marched  to  and  firo  like  a  sentry. 


262  JOHN   BKENT. 

His  thin,  gray  hair  and  long,  bifid  beard  gave 
him  a  ghastly  look ;  and  then  he  trod  his  beat  as 
if  it  were  a  doom,  —  as  if  he  were  a  sentinel 
over  his  own  last  evasive  hope. 

"  Drapetomania !  "  I  thought,  "  and  a  hopeless 
case." 

A  knock  at  my  door,  and  the  brawny  corpo- 
raless  summoned  me  to  Miss  Clitheroe. 

"  We  are  going,"  she  said.  "  Take  me  to 
him ! " 

Did  she  love  him  ? 

I  braved  Dr.  Pathie's  displeasure,  and  led  her 
to  the  bedside  of  the  lover. 

Brent  was  still  in  a  stupor.     We  were  alone. 

She  stood  looking  at  him  a  moment.  He  was 
breathing,  but  unconscious ;  dead  to  the  outer 
world  and  her  presence.  She  stood  looking  at 
him,  and  seeming  with  her  large,  solemn  eyes  to 
review  those  scenes  of  terror  and  of  relief  since 
she  had  known  him.  Tears  gathered  in  the 
brave,  quiet  eyes. 

Suddenly  she  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead. 
Then  she  passionately  kissed  his  lips.  She  grew 
to  him  as  if  she  would  interfuse  anew  that  ichor 
of  love  into  his  being. 

She  turned  to  me,  all  crimsoned,  but  self-pos- 
sessed. 

"  I  meant  you  should  see  me  prove  my  love," 
she  said.     "  I  am  proud  of  myself  for  it,  —  proud 


DRAPETOMANIA.  263 

of  my  heart  that  it  can  know  and  love  this  no- 
blest and  tenderest  nature.  Tell  him  so.  Tell 
him  it  is  not  gratitude,  but  love.  He  will  know 
that  I  could  not  stay.  My  life  belongs  to  my 
father.  Where  he  goes,  I  must  go.  What  other 
friend  has  he  than  me  ?  I  go  with  my  father, 
but  here  my  heart  remains.  Tell  him  so.  Please 
let  me  write  to  you.  You  will  not  forget  your 
comrade.  I  owe  more  than  life  to  you.  Do  let 
me  keep  myself  in  your  memory.  I  dread  my 
life  before  me.  I  will  keep  you  informed  of  my 
father's  plans.  And  when  this  dearest  one  is 
well  again,  if  he  remembers  me,  tell  him  I  love 
him,  and  that  I  parted  from  him  —  so." 

She  bent  again,  and  kissed  him  passionately,  — 
then  departed,  and  her  tears  were  on  his  cheek. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 


NOBLESSE  OBLIfiV 


Brent's  stupor  lasted  many  days.  Life  had 
been  strained  to  its  utmost.  Body,  brain,  heart, 
all  had  had  exhausting  taxes  to  pay.  The  realm 
must  rest. 

While  his  mind  slept.  Nature  was  gently  renew- 
ing Mm.  Quiet  is  cure  to  an  untainted  life. 
There  was  no  old  fever  of  discontent  in  hia 
brain.  He  had  regrets,  but  no  remorses.  Oth- 
ers had  harmed  him ;  his  life  had  been  a  sad 
one  ;  he  had  never  harmed  himself.  The  thoughts 
and  images  tangled  in  his  brain,  the  "  stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of,"  were  of  happy  omen.  No 
Stygian  fancies  made  his  trance  unrest.  Life  did 
not  struggle  for  recovery  that  it  might  plunge 
again  into  base  or  foiil  pursuits,  or  the  scuffles 
of  selfishness.  A  man  whose  life  is  for  others  is 
safe  from  selfish  disappointment  when  he  is  com- 
manded to  stand  aside  and  be  naught  for  a 
time. 

I   knew  the   images   that   hovered   about  my 
sleeping  friend's  mind,  for  I  knew  the  thouglits 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE.  265 

that  were  the  comrades  of  his  waking  hfe.  His 
memory  was  crowded  full  of  sights  and  sounds 
of  beauty,  and  those  thoughts  that  are  the  emana- 
tions of  fair  visions  and  sweet  tones,  and  dwell 
unuttered  poetry  in  the  soul.  I  knew  how,  long 
ago  in  childhood,  he  had  made  Nature  friend, 
and  found  his  earUest  comrades  among  flowers 
and  birds.  I  knew,  for  he  had  been  my  teacher, 
how,  when  youth  first  looked  widely  forth  for  vis- 
ions of  the  Infinite,  he  had  learned  to  compre- 
hend, day  after  day,  night  after  night,  the  large 
delight  of  heaven  ;  whether  the  busy  heaven, 
when  the  golden  sun  makes  our  sky  blue  above 
us,  and  reveals  on  earth  the  facts  that  we  must 
deal  with  and  by  which  we  must  be  taught  our 
laws,  or  the  quiet  heaven  of  night,  with  its 
starry  tokens  of  grander  fruition,  when  we  shall 
live  for  grander  days.  Sky  and  clouds,  sun  and 
stars,  brooks  and  rivers,  forests  and  hills,  waves 
and  winds,  —  these  had  received  him  to  their 
sweet  companionship,  as  his  mind  could  grad- 
ually grasp  the  larger  conceptions  of  beauty. 
Ajid  so,  when  his  time  came  to  perceive  the 
higher  significance  of  Art,  as  man's  rudimentary 
efforts  toward  creations  diviner  and  more  orderly 
than  those  of  earth,  he  had  gone  to  Art  with  the 
unerring  eye  and  interpreting  love  of  a  fresh 
soul,  schooled  by  Nature  only,  blind  to  Art's 
baser  fancies,  and  hospitable  to  its  holier  dreams. 

12 


266  JOHN  BRENT. 

No  Ugly  visions  could  visit  the  uncontrolled  hours 
of  a  brain  so  stored.     His  trance  was  peace. 

More  than  peace  ;  for  as  I  watched  his  quiet 
face,  I  knew  that  his  spirit  was  conscious  of  a 
spiritual  presence,  and  Love  was  hovering  over 
him,  a  healing  element. 

At  last  he  waked.  He  threw  volition  into  the 
scale  of  recovery.     He  was  well  in  a  trice. 

Captain  Ruby  and  Doctor  Pathic  were  disposed 
to  growl  at  the  rapidity  of  Brent's  cure. 

"  I  have  half  a  mind  to  turn  military  despot, 
and  arrest  you,"  said  Ruby.  "  A  pair  of  muffs, 
even,  would  be  welcome  in  the  winter  at  Lara- 
mie. You  have  made  a  wretched  bungle  of  it, 
Pathie.  Why  did  n't  you  mend  your  man  delib- 
erately, a  muscle  a  week,  a  nerve  a  month,  and 
so  make  it  a  six  months'  job  ?  " 

"  He  took  the  matter  out  of  my  hands,  and 
mended  himself.  There  's  cool,  patient,  deter- 
mined vitahty  in  him,  enough  to  set  up  a  legion, 
or  father  a  race.  Which  is  it,  Mr.  Wade,  words 
to  say  or  duties  to  do,  that  has  made  him  con- 
dense his  being  on  recovery  ?  " 

"  Both,  I  believe.  He  is  mature  now,  and 
wants,  no  doubt,  to  be  at  his  business  of  saying 
and  doing." 

"  And  loving,"  said  Ruby. 

'■  Ay,"  said  Pathie.  "  That  has  had  more  to 
do  with  it.     I  hope  he  will  overtake  and  win,  for 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE.  267 

I  love  the  boy.  I  keep  my  oldish  heart  pretty 
well  locked  against  strangers ;  but  there  is  a 
warm  cell  in  it,  and  in  that  cell  he  has,  sleeping 
and  waking,  made  himself  a  home." 

"  Ah,  Doctor,"  said  Ruby,  "  you  and  I,  for 
want  of  women  to  love,  have  to  content  ourselves 
with  poetic  rovers  like  Brent.  He  and  Biddulph 
were  balls,  operas,  champagne  on  tap,  new  novels, 
flirtations,  and  cigars  to  me  last  winter." 

We  were  smoking  our  pipes  on  the  veranda 
one  warm  November  day,  when  this  conversation 
happened. 

I  had  not  quite  forgotten  the  Barrownight,  as 
Jake  Shamberlain  pronounced  him,  nor  quite 
forgotten,  in  grave  cares,  my  fancy  that  his  stay 
in  Utah  was  for  Miss  Clitheroe's  sake. 

I  was  hardly  surprised  when,  that  very  even- 
ing, a  bronzed  traveller,  face  many  shades  darker 
than  hair  and  beard,  rode  up  to  the  post  with  a 
Delaware  Indian,  and  was  hailed  by  Ruby  as 
Biddulph. 

"  We  were  talking  of  you  not  an  hour  ago," 
said  Ruby,  greeting  him.  "  Wishing  you  would 
come  to  make  last  winter's  party  complete. 
Brent  is  here,  wounded." 

"Has  he  a  lady  with  him?"  said  the  new- 
comer. His  voice  and  manner  were  manly  and 
frank,  —  a  chivalrous  fellow,  one  of  us,  one  of 
the  comradry  of  knights  errant. 


268  JOHN  BRENT. 

"  Mr.  Wade  will  give  an  account  of  her." 

"Come  in  to  Brent,"  said  I,  "  and  we  will  talk 
matters  over." 

Ruby,  model  host,  cleared  the  way  for  a  parley 
whose  interest  he  divined. 

"I  will  see  after  your  horses.  Don't  lose  your 
appetite  for  supper.     We  have  potatoes  !  " 

"Potatoes!!"  cried  Biddulph.     "Not  I!" 

"Yes,  and  flapjacks  and  molasses,  ready  in 
half  an  hour." 

"  Flapjacks  and  molasses  !  Potatoes  and  flap- 
jacks ! —  Yes,  and  molasses!"  Biddulph  again 
exclaimed.  "  Jewel  of  a  Ruby !  This  is  the 
Ossa  on  Pelion  of  g-ourmandise.  How  under- 
done and  overdone  all  the  banquets  of  civiliza- 
tion seem  !  I  charge  thee.  Ruby,  when  the  pota- 
toes and  the  flapjacks  and  molasses  are  ready, 
that  thou  peal  a  jubilee  upon  the  bell.  Now, 
Mr.  Wade,  let  me  see  this  wounded  friend,  and 
hear  and  tell." 

The  two  gentlemen  met  with  cordiality. 
Brent,  I  believe,  had  never  identified  Miss  Cli- 
theroe  with  the  lady  Biddulph  fled  from,  and 
I  had  never  mentioned  my  suspicions. 

"  Not  one  word,  John  !  "  said  the  Briton, 
"  until  I  know  what  you  have  done  with  Ellen 
Chtheroe.     Is  she  safe  ?  " 

Brent  comprehended  the  Baronet's  heart  and 
mind  at  the  word.     The  other,  I  think,  saw  as 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE.  269 

plainly  ou  Brent's  face  that  he  was  a  lover, 
and  perhaps  the  more  fortunate  one.  These  two 
loyal  men  drew  closer  at  this,  as  wholly  loyal 
souls  will  do,  for  all  the  pang  of  knowing  that 
one  has  loved  and  lost. 

Brent  told  our  story  in  brief. 

"  I  divined  that  you  were  one  of  the  pair  who 
had  started  on  the  rescue.  I  could  not  mistake 
you,  man  and  horse  and  dress,  from  the  Mor- 
mon's description." 

"  You  saw  Sizzum,  then  ?  " 

"  I  saw  his  dead  body." 

"  What  ?  Dead !  "  A  sense  of  relief,  that  the 
world  had  one  tempter  the  less,  passed  through 
our  minds. 

"Yes,  shot  dead,  just  where  the  "Wasatch 
Mountains  open,  and  there  is  that  wonderful 
view  of  Salt  Lake  City.  His  Nemesis  met  him 
there.  I  heard  the  shot  fired,  as  I  was  riding 
oiit  to  meet  the  train,  and  saw  him  fall !  " 

"  Who  shot  him,  of  the  many  that  had  a 
right  ?  " 

"  As  mild  a  mannered  man  as  ever  shuddered 
at  the  crack  of  an  egg-shell." 

"  "Vendetta  for  woman-stealing  ?  " 

"  Wife-stealing.  The  man  was  a  poor  music- 
teacher,  with  a  pretty  spouse  in  Quincy,  Illinois. 
He  had  told  me  his  own  story,  without  proclaim- 
ing his  purpose,  though  I  conjectured  it.     The 


270  JOHN   BRENT. 

pretty  spouse  grew  tired  of  poverty  and  five  chil- 
dren. She  went  off  with  Sizzum.  The  music- 
master  hired  himself  to  a  drover,  named  Arm- 
strong, and  plodded  out  to  Utah.  When  he  got 
there,  he  found  Sizzum  gone.  He  turned  hun- 
ter. I  met  him  in  the  mountains,  a  crack  shot. 
He  waited  his  time,  ambushed  the  train,  and  shot 
Sizzum  dead,  as  he  first  caught  sight  of  the 
VaUey." 

"A  thought  of  poetry  in  his  justice.  What 
then  ?  " 

"  I  could  see  him  creeping  away  among  the 
rocks,  while  the  Mormons  were  getting  their 
rifles.  They  opened  fire,  a  hundred  of  them. 
Eing,  ping !  the  balls  tapped  all  about  him.  He 
was  just  clear,  just  springing  over  a  little  ridge 
of  shelter,  when  a  shot  struck  him.  He  flung 
out  his  arms  in  an  attitude  of  imprecation,  and 
fell  over  the  rocks.  Dead,  and  doubly  dead  from 
the  fall." 

"  Our  two  evil  forces  are  erased  from  the 
world.  Wade,"  said  Brent. 

"  May  it  be  good  omen  for  coming  difficulties  ! 
But  how  did  you  learn  of  the  events  at  Port 
Bridger  ?  "  I  asked  the  Baronet. 

"  The  Lancashire  people  in  the  train  all  took 
an  interest  in  the  Clitheroes.  They  knew  from 
Sizzum  what  happened  when  he  followed  you, 
and  your  purpose  to  give  chase.     I  knew  John 


NOBLESSE    OBLIGE.  271 

Brent  well  enough  to  believe  that  he  would 
achieve  the  rescue.  Happy  fellow !  I  forgive 
you,  John  ;  hard  it  is,  but  I  forgive  you  for  step- 
ping in  before  me,  I  was  waiting  there  in  Utah 
to  do  what  I  could  for  my  old  love  and  my  old 
friend.  I  should  like  to  have  had  a  bullet  in  my 
arm  in  the  cause  ;  but  the  result  is  good,  whether 
I  gain  or  lose." 

"  I  never  thought  of  you,  Biron.  In  fact,  from 
the  moment  I  saw  her,  I  thought  of  no  one 
else." 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  her  power.  We  were  old  neigh- 
bors in  Lancashire.  My  father  bought  the  old 
Hall  after  Mr.  Clitheroe's  disasters.  The  disap- 
pearance and  the  mysterious  reappearance  of 
the  old  gentleman  and  his  beautiful  daughter 
were  the  romance  of  the  region.  No  one  knew 
where  they  had  been.  My  father  was  dead.  My 
mother  tried  to  befriend  them.  But  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  soured  and  disappointed.  He  could 
not  forgive  us  for  inhabiting  the  old  mansion  of 
his  happier  days.  God  knows  how  gladly  I  would 
have  reinstated  him  there.  But  she  could  not 
love  me  ;  so  I  came  away,  and  we  looked  up  Lug- 
gerncl  Springs  and  the  Alley  together,  John,  to 
give  you  a  chance  to  snatch  my  destiny  away 
from  me." 

Brent,  in  his  weakness,  had   no   answer  to 
make,  except  to  give  his  hand  to  this  gentle  rival. 


272  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  How  did  you  learu  of  their  Mormon  error  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  My  mother  wrote  me.  She  loves  Miss  Clithe- 
roe  like  a  daughter.  She  pities  the  father.  His 
wife  was  her  friend.  A  genial,  lovable  man  he 
was,  she  says,  until,  after  his  losses,  people  whom 
he  had  aided  turned  and  accused  him  of  reck- 
lessness and  dishonesty,  —  a  charge  as  false  and 
cruel  as  could  be  made.  My  mother  wrote,  told 
me  of  Sizzum's  success  in  Clitheroe,  and  of  our 
friends'  departure.  She  ordered  me,  on  my 
obedience,  never  to  come  back  to  England  until 
I  could  tell  her  that  Ellen  was  safe  out  of  Siz- 
zum's power.  She  had  gone  to  hear  him  preach, 
and  abhorred  him.  I  received  her  letter  after  we 
had  parted,  John,  and  I  camped  with  Jake  Sham- 
berlain,  waiting  for  the  train.  What  I  could 
have  done,  I  do  not  know ;  but  my  life  was  Miss 
Clitheroe's." 

How  easy  his  chivalry  seemed  to  this  noble 
fellow!  "■  Noblesse  oblig-e'';  but  the  obligation 
was  no  burden. 

"  You  are  a  stanch  friend,  Biron,"  said  Brent. 
"  She  may  need  you  yet." 

"  Yes,"  said  he  ;  "  Christian  England  is  a  sav- 
age, cruel  as  any  of  these  brutes  she  has  encoun- 
tered here,  to  a  beautiful  girl  with  a  helpless, 
crazy  father.     When  can  you  travel,  John  ?  " 

"Nearly  a  month  I  have  been  here  fighting 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE.  273 

death  and  grasping  at  life.  Give  me  two  days 
more  to  find  a  horse  and  ride  about  a  little,  and 
we  are  off." 

"Armstrong,  fine  old  fellow,  left  the  sorrel  for 
you,"  I  said.     "■  He  is  in  racing  trim  now." 

"  Capital !  "  said  Brent.  "  One  Armstrong  is 
a  brave  weight  on  the  true  side  of  the  balance, 
against  an  army  of  pioneers  who  have  gone  bar- 
barous." 

"  I  have  something  to  show  you,  John,"  said 
Biddulph.  "  See  here.  I  bought  this  of  a  Mor- 
mon. He  had  very  likely  stolen  it  from  Mr. 
Clitheroe's  wagon.  It  was  the  only  relic  I  could 
get  of  them." 

The  very  drawing  of  Clitheroe  Hall  its  former 
owner  had  wished  to  show  me  at  Fort  Bridger. 
An  able  sketch  of  a  thoroughly  English  house. 
If  England  were  sunk  in  the  sea,  and  its  whole 
history  perished,  English  life,  society,  and  man- 
ners could  be  reconstructed  from  the  inspection 
of  such  a  drawing,  as  a  geologist  recalls  an  aeon 
from  a  trilobite.  I  did  not  wonder  that  it  had 
been  heart-breaking  to  quit  the  shelter  of  that 
grand  old  roof.  I  fixed  the  picture  in  my  mind. 
The  time  came  when  that  remembrance  was 
precious. 

"  Now,  Biddulph  !  "  called  Ruby,  "  supper 
waits.     Potatoes  !     Flapjacks  and  molasses  !  " 

"  They  shall  be  a  part  of  me  instantly." 

12*  K 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

HAM. 

Two  days  Biddulph  solaced  himself  on  those 
rare  luxuries  of  Ruby's  menage;  the  thkd,  we 
started. 

Ruby  and  the  surgeon  rode  with  us  a  score  of 
miles.  It  was  hard  to  say  good-bye.  We  were 
grateful,  and  they  were  sorry. 

"  What  can  we  do  for  you,  Ruby  ? " 

"  Raze  Laramie,  abolish  the  plains,  level  the 
Rockys,  nullify  the  Sioux,  and  disband  the 
American  army." 

"  What  can  we  do  for  you,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Find  me  a  wife,  box  her  up  so  that  no  one 
will  stop  her  in  transitu,  mark  Simeon  Pathie, 
M.  D.,  U.  S.  A.,  and  ship  to  Fort  Vancouver, 
Oregon,  where  I  shall  be  stationed  next  summer. 
Your  English  lady  in  half  a  day  has  spoiled  my 
philosophy  of  a  life." 

"  Good-bye  and  good  luck !  " 

It  was  late  travelling  througn  that  houseless 
waste.  Deep  snow  already  blanched  the  Black 
HiUs,  and  Laramie  Peak,  their  chief.     Mr.  Bier- 


HAIL  275 

stadt,  ill  his  fine  picture  iii  this  year's  Academy, 
has  shown  them  as  they  are  in  the  mellow  days 
of  summer.  Now,  cold  and  stern,  they  warned 
us  to  hasten  on. 

We  did  hasten.  We  crowded  through  the  buf- 
falo ;  we  crossed  and  recrossed  the  Platte,  already 
curdling  with  winter ;  we  dashed  over  the  prairies 
of  Kansas,  blackened  by  fire  and  whitened  by 
snow,  but  then  unstained  by  any  peaceful  settler's 
blood. 

Jake  Shamberlain,  returning  with  his  party, 
met  us  on  the  way. 

"  I  passed  the  train  with  the  young  woman 
and  her  father,"  said  he.  "  We  camped  together 
one  night,  and  bein'  as  I  was  a  friend  of  your  'n, 
she  give  me  a  talk.  Pooty  tall  talkin'  't  wuz, 
and  I  wuz  teched  in  a  new  spot.  I  've  felt  mean 
as  muck  ever  sence  she  opened  to  me  on  religion, 
and  when  I  git  home  I  'm  goan  to  swing  clear  of 
the  Church,  ef  I  ken  cut  clear,  and  emigrate  to 
Oregon.  So,  Barrownight,  next  time  you  come 
out,  you  '11  find  me  on  a  claim  there,  out  to  the 
Willamette  or  the  Umpqua,  just  as  much  like 
a  gentleman's  park  in  England  as  one  grasshop- 
per is  to  another,  only  they  hain't  got  no  such 
mountains  to  England  as  I  '11  show  you  thar." 

"  Well,  Jake,  we  '11  try  to  pay  you  our  re- 
spects." 

We  hastened  on.     Wliy  pause  for  our  adven- 


276  JOHN   BRENT. 

tiires  ?  They  were  but  episodes  along  our  new 
gallop  of  three.  This  time  it  was  not  restless, 
anxious  gallop.  We  had  no  doubt  but  that  in 
good  time  we  should  overtake  our  friends,  in 
regions  where  men  are  not  shot  along  the  right 
arm  when  they  protect  insulted  dames. 

Brent  was  himself  agahi.  We  rode  hard. 
Biddulph  was  as  fine  a  fellow  as  my  grandmother 
England  has  mothered.  Find  an  Englishman 
vital  enough  to  be  a  Come-outer,  and  you  have 
found  a  man  worthy  to  be  the  peer  of  an  Ameri- 
can with  Yankee  education.  Western  scope,  and 
California  irrepressibility. 

Whiter  chased  us  close.  Often  we  woke  at 
night,  and  found  our  bivouac  sheeted  with  cold 
snow,  —  a  cool  sheet,  but  luckily  outside  our 
warm  blankets.  It  was  full  December  when  the 
plains  left  us,  fell  back,  and  beached  us  upon  the 
outer  edge  of  civilization,  at  Independence,  Mis- 
souri. 

The  muddy  Missouri  was  running  dregs. 
Steamboats  were  tired  of  skipping  from  sand-bar 
to  sand-bar.  Engineer  had  reported  to  Captain, 
that  "  Kangaroo  No.  5  would  bust,  if  he  did  n't 
stop  trying  to  make  her  lift  herself  over  the 
damp  country  by  her  braces."  No  more  steam- 
boating  on  the  yellow  ditch  until  there  was  a 
rise ;  until  the  Platte  sent  down  sand  three  and 
water  one,  or  the  Yellowstone  mud  three  and 


water  one,  or  the  Missouri  proper  grit  three  and 
water  one.  We  must  travel  by  land  to  St.  Louis 
and  railroads. 

We  could  go  with  our  horses  as  fast  as  the 
stage-coaches.  So  we  sold  our  pack  beasts,  and 
started  to  continue  our  gallop  of  three  across 
Missouri. 

Half-way  across,  we  stopped  one  evening  at  the 
mean  best  tavern  in  a  mean  town,  —  a  frowzy 
county  town,  with  a  dusty  public  square,  a  boxy 
church,  and  a  spittley  court-house. 

Fit  entertainment  for  beast  the  tavern  offered. 
We  saw  our  horses  stabled,  and  had  our  supper. 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  Spittoon  ?  "  said  Bid- 
dulph. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Brent.  "  The  bar-room  —  I 
am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  of  it  with  foreign 
prejudice  —  is  an  institution,  and  merits  study. 
Argee,  upon  the  which  ^tlie  bar-room  is  based,  is 
also  an  institution." 

"  Well,  I  came  to  study  American  institutions. 
Let  us  go  in  and  take  a  whiff  of  disgust." 

Fit  entertainment  for  brute  the  bar-room  of- 
fered. In  that  club-room  we  found  the  brute 
class  drinking,  swearing,  spitting,  squabbling 
over  the  price  of  hemp  and  the  price  of  "nig- 
gers," and  talking  what  it  called  "  politics." 

One  tall,  truculent  Pike,  the  loudest  of  all  that 
blatant  crew,  seemed  to  Brent  apd  myself  an  old 


278  JOHN   BRENT. 

acquaintance.  We  had  seen  him  or  his  double 
somewhere.  But  neither  of  us  could  fit  him  with 
a  pedestal  in  our  long  gallery  of  memory.  Saints 
one  takes  pains  to  remember,  and  theu-  scenes  ; 
but  satyrs  one  endeavors  to  lose. 

"  Have  you  had  enough  of  the  Spittoon  ?  "  I 
asked  Biddulph.  "  Shall  we  go  up  ?  They  've 
put  us  all  three  in  the  same  room ;  but  bivouacs 
in  the  same  big  room — Out-Doors — are  wliat 
we  are  best  used  to." 

Two  and  a  half  beds,  one  broken-backed  chair, 
a  wash-stand  decked  with  an  ancient  fringed 
towel  and  an  abandoned  tooth-brush,  one  torn 
slipper,  and  a  stove-pipe  hole,  furnished  our 
bedchamber. 

We  were  about  to  cast  lots  for  the  half-bed,  when 
we  heard  two  men  enter  the  next  room.  The 
partition  was  only  paper  pasted  over  lath,  and 
cut  up  as  if  a  Border  Ruffian  member  of  Congress 
had  practised  at  it  with  a  bowie-knife  before  a 
street-fight.  Every  word  of  our  neighbors  came 
to  us.  They  were  talking  of  a  slave  bargain.  I 
eliminate  their  oaths,  though  such  filtration  does 
them  injustice. 

"Eight  hundred  dollars,"  said  the  first  speak- 
er, and  his  voice  startled  us  as  if  a  dead  man  we 
knew  had  spoken.  "  Eight  hundred,  —  that 's  - 
the  top  of  my  pile  fur  that  boy.  Ef  he  warn't  so 
old  and  hadn't  one  eye  poked  out,  I  agree  lie  'd 
be  wuth  a  heap  more." 


HAxM.  279 

"  Waal,  a  trade  's  a  trade.  I  '11  take  yer 
stump.  Count  out  yer  dimes,  and  I  '11  fill  out  a 
blank  bill  of  sale.     Murker,  the  boy  's  yourn." 

"Mui-ker!" — we  both  started  at  the  name. 
This  was  the  satyr  we  had  observed  in  the  bar- 
room. Had  Fulano's  victim  crept  from  under 
his  cairn  in  Luggernel  Alley,  and  chased  us  to 
take  flesh  here  and  harm  us  again.  Such  a 
superstitious  thought  crossed  my  mind. 

The  likeness  —  look,  voice,  and  name  —  was 
presently  accounted  for. 

"  You  're  lookin'  fur  yer  brother  out  from 
Sacramenter,  'bout  now,  I  reckon,"  said  the 
trader. 

"  He  wuz  comin'  cross  lots  with  a  man  named 
Larrap,  a  pardener  of  his'u.  Like  enough  they've 
stayed  over  winter  in  Salt  Lake.  They  oughter 
rake  down  a  most  a  mountainious  pile  thar." 

"  Mormons  is  flush  and  sarcy  with  their  dimes 
sence  the  emigration.  Now  thar's  yer  bill  of 
sale,  all  right." 

"  And  thar  's  yer  money,  all  right." 

"  That  are 's  wut  I  call  a  screechin'  good  price 
fur  an  old  one-eyed  nigger.  Fourteen  hundred 
dollars,  —  an  all-fired  price." 

"  Eight  hundred,  you  mean." 

"  No  ;  fourteen.  Yer  see,  you  're  not  up  ter 
taime  on  the  nigger  question.  I  know  'em  like  a 
church-steeple.      Wlicn  I  bought  that  are  boy, 


280  JOHN   BRENT. 

now  comin'  three  year,  I  seed  he  wuz  a  sprightly 
nigger,  one  er  yer  ambitious  sort,  what  would  be 
mighty  apt  to  git  fractious,  an'  be  makin'  tracks, 
onless  I  got  a  holt  on  him.  So  sez  I  to  him, 
'  Ham,  you  're  a  sprightly  nigger,  one  of  the  raal 
ambitious  sort,  now  aincher  ? '  He  allowed  he 
warnt  nothin'  else.  '  Waal,'  sez  I,  '  Ham,  how  'd 
you  like  to  buy  yerself,  an'  be  a  free  nigger,  an' 
hev  a  house  of  yer  own,  an'  a  woman  of  yer  own, 
all  jess  like  white  folks  ? '  '  Lor,'  sez  he,  '  Massa, 
I  'd  like  it  a  heap.'  '  Waal,'  sez  I,  '  you  jess 
scrabble  round  an'  raise  me  seven  hundred  dol- 
lars, an'  I  '11  sell  you  to  yerself,  an'  cheap  at  that.' 
So  yer  see  he  began  to  pay  up,  an'  I  got  a  holt 
on  him.  He  's  a  handy  nigger,  an'  a  likely 
nigger,  an'  a  pop'lar  nigger.  He  ken  play  on 
ther  fiddle  like  taime,  —  pooty  nigh  a  minstril  is 
that  are  nigger.  He  ken  cut  hair  an'  fry  a  beef- 
steak with  ayry  man.  He  ken  drive  team,  an' 
do  a  little  j'iner  work,  an'  shoe  a  mule  when  thar 
ain't  no  reg'lar  blacksmith  round.  He  made 
these  yer  boots,  an'  reg'lar  stompers  they  is. 
He  's  one  er  them  chirrupy,  smilin'  niggers, 
with  white  teeth  an'  genteel  manners,  what  crit- 
turs  an'  foaks  nat'rally  takes  to.  Waal,  he  picked 
up  the  bits  and  quarters  right  smart.  He  's  ben 
at  it,  lammin'  ahead  raal  ambitious,  for  'bou.t 
three  year.  Last  Sunday,  after  church,  he  pinted 
up  the  last  ten  of  the  six  hundred.    So  I  allowed 


riAZvi.  281 

't  waz.  coiae  Lime  to  sell  him,  fie  wuz  gettin' 
his  bead  drawed,  an'  his  idees  sot  on  freedom 
very  onhealthy.  I  did  n't  like  to  disapp'int  him 
to  ther  last ;  so  I  allowed  't  wuz  jest  as  well  to 
let  you  hev  him  cheap  to  go  down  River.  That 's 
how  to  work  them  fractious  runaway  niggers. 
That  are  's  my  patent.  You  ken  hev  it  for 
nothin'.     Haw  !  haw  !  " 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw  !  You  are  one  er  ther  boys. 
I  'm  diim  sorry  that  are  trick  can't  be  did  twicet 
on  the  same  nigger.  I  reckon  he  knows  too 
much  for  that.  Waal,  s'pose  we  walk  round  to 
the  calaboose,  'fore  we  go  to  bed,  an'  see  ef  he  's 
chained  up  all  right." 

They  went  out. 

Biddulph  spoke  first. 

"  Shame ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Brent ;  "  do  you  wonder  that  we 
have  to  run  away  to  the  Rockys  and  spend  our 
indignation  on  grizzly s  ?  " 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  Try  to  abolish  slavery  in  Ham's  case.  Come  ; 
we  '11  go  buy  him  a  file." 

"  We  seem  to  have  business  with  the  Murker 
family,"  said  I. 

"  A  hard  lot  they  are.    Representative  brutes ! " 

"  I  am  getting  a  knowledge  of  all  classes  on 
your  continent,"  said  Biddulph.  "  Some  I  likp 
better  than  others  !  " 


282  JOHN  BRENT. 

"  Don't  bo  too  harsh  on  us  malecontents  for  the 
sin  of  slavery.  It  is  an  ancestral  taint.  We 
shall  burn  it  out  before  many  decades." 

"  You  had  better,  or  it  will  set  your  own 
house  on  fire." 

It  was  late  as  we  walked  along  the  streets, 
channels  of  fever  and  ague  now  frozen  up  for  the 
winter.  We  saw  a  light  through  a  shop  door, 
and  hammered  stoutly  for  admission. 

A  clerk,  long-haired  and  frowzy,  opened  un- 
graciously. In  the  back  shop  were  three  others, 
also  long-haired  and  frowzy,  dealing  cards  and 
drinking  a  dark  compost  from  tumblers. 

"Port  wine,"  whispered  Brent.  "Fine  Old 
London  Dock  Port  is  the  favorite  beverage,  when 
the  editor,  the  lawyer,  the  apothecary,  and  the 
merchant  meet  to  play  euchre  in  ]!tIissouri." 

We  bought  our  files  from  the  surly  clerk,  and 
made  for  the  calaboose.  It  was  a  stout  log  struc- 
ture, with  grated  windows.  At  one  of  these,  by 
the  low  moonlight,  we  saw  a  negro.  It  was  cold 
and  late.    Nobody  was  near.    We  hailed  the  man. 

"  Ham." 

"  Tliat  's  me,  Massa." 

"  You  're  sold  to  Murker,  to  go  south  to-mor- 
row morning.     If  you  want  to  get  free,  catch  !  " 

Brent  tossed  him  up  the  files. 

"  Catch  again!  "  said  Biddulph,  and  up  went 
a  rattling  purse,  England's  subsidy. 


HAM. 


283 


Ham's  white  teeth  and  genteel  manners  ap- 
peared at  once.  He  grinned,  and  whispered 
thanks. 

"  Is  that  all  we  can  do  ? "  asked  the  Baronet, 
as  we  walked  off. 

"Yes,"  said  Brent,  taking  a  nasal  tone. 
"Ham's  a  pop'lar  nigger,  a  handy  nigger,  one 
er  your  raal  ambitious  sort.  He  ken  cut  hair, 
fry  a  beefsteak,  and  play  on  the  fiddle  like  a 
minstril.  He  ken  shoe  a  mule,  drive  a  team,  do 
a  Httle  j'iner  work,  and  make  stompers.  Yes, 
Biddulph,  trust  him  to  gnaw  himself  free  with 
that  Connecticut  rat-tail." 

"  Ham  against  Japhet ;  I  hope  he  '11  win." 

"  Now,"  said  Brent,  "  that  we  've  put  in  action 
Christ's  Golden  Rule,  Jefferson's  Declaration  of 
Independence,  and  All-the-wisdom's  Preamble  to 
the  Constitution,  we  can  sleep  the  sleep  of  well- 
doers, if  we  have  two  man-stealers  —  and  one 
the  brother  of  a  murderer  —  only  papered  off 
from  us." 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

FULANO'S  BLOOD-STAIN. 

"  What  a  horse  beyond  all  horses  yours  is  !  " 
said  Biddulph  to  me  next  morning,  as  we  rode 
along  cheerily  through  the  fresh,  frosty  air  of 
December.  "  I  think,  when  your  continent  gets 
to  its  finality  in  horse-flesh,  you  will  beat  our 
island." 

"  Think  what  training  such  a  trip  is  !  This 
comrade  of  mine  has  come  two  thousand  miles 
with  me,  —  big  thought,  eh  !  —  and  he  freshens 
up  with  the  ozone  of  this  morning,  as  if  he  had 
been  in  the  stable  a  week,  champing  asphodel." 

Fulano  felt  my  commendation.  He  became 
electrified.  He  stirred  under  me.  I  gave  him 
rein.  He  shook  himself  out,  and  began  to  recite 
Ms  accomplishments. 

Whatever  gait  he  had  in  his  legs  together,  or 
portion  of  a  leap  in  either  pair  of  them ;  what- 
ever gesticulations  he  considered  graceful,  with 
toes  in  the  air  before,  or  heels  in  the  air  behind  ; 
whatever  serpentine  writhe  or  sinewy  bend  of 
the   body,  whatever   curve  of  the   proud  neck. 


FULANO'S   BLOOD-STAIN.  285 

fling  of  the  nead,  signal  of  the  ear,  toss  of  the 
mane,  whisk  of  the  tail,  he  knew,  —  all  these  he 
repeated,  to  remind  me  what  a  horse  he  was,  and 
justify  my  praise. 

What  a  HORSE,  indeed ! 

How  far  away  from  him  every  lubberly  road- 
ster, every  hack  that  endures  the  holidays  of  a 
tailor,  every  grandpapa's  cob,  every  sloucher  in  a 
sulky !  Of  other  race  and  other  heart  was  this 
steed,  both  gentle  and  proud.  He  was  still  able 
to  be  the  better  half  of  a  knight-errant  when  a 
charger  worth  a  kingdom  must  be  had,  —  when 
Love  needed  his  mighty  alliance  in  the  battle 
with  Brutality.  He  was  willing  now,  in  piping- 
times  of  peace,  to  dance  along  his  way,  a  gay 
comrade  to  the  same  knight-errant,  riding  home- 
ward a  quiet  gentleman,  with  armor  doffed  and 
unsuspecting  further  war. 

What  sport  we  had  together  that  morning  ! 
We  were  drawing  near  the  end  of  our  journey. 
Not  that  that  was  to  part  us  !  No,  he  was  to  be 
my  companion  still.  I  had  a  vision  of  him  in  a 
paddock,  with  a  fine  young  fellow,  not  unlike 
myself,  patting  his  head,  while  an  oldish  fellow, 
not  unlike  myself,  in  fact  very  me  with  another 
quarter  of  a  century  on  my  head,  told  the  story 
of  the  Gallop  of  Three  and  the  wild  charge 
down  Luggernel  Alley  to  that  unwearying  audi- 
tor, while  a  lady,  very  like  my  ideal  of  a  wife, 


286  JOHN  BEENT. 

stood  by  and  thrilled  again  to  the  tale.  Such  a 
vision  I  had  of  Fulano's  future. 

But  now  that  our  journey  was  ending,  he  and 
I  were  willing,  on  this  exhilarating  winter's  day, 
to  talk  it  over.  What  had  he  gained  by  the 
chances  by  flood  and  field  we  had  encountered 
together  ? 

"  I  have  not  gone,"  Pulano  notified  me,  "  two 
thousand  miles,  since  my  lonely,  riderless  days 
among  the  herds  of  Gerriau,  since  our  first  meet- 
ing on  the  prairie  and  my  leap  through  the  loop 
of  Jose's  lasso,  —  I  have  not  gone  my  leagues  of 
continent  for  nothing. 

"  See  what  lessons  I  have  learnt,  thanks  to 
you,  my  schoolmaster  !  This  is  my  light  step  for 
heavy  sand;  tliis  is  my  cautious  step  over  peb- 
bles ;  my  high  step  over  boulders ;  my  easy,  un- 
wasteful  travelling  gait ;  my  sudden  stop  without 
unseating  my  rider  ;  so  I  swerve  without  shying  ; 
and  so  I  spring  mto  top  speed  without  a  strain. 
Your  lady-love  could  canter  me  ;  your  baby  could 
walk  me ;  because  I  please  to  be  your  friend,  my 
friend.  But  you  know  me ;  I  am  the  untam- 
able still,  except  by  love." 

And  then  he  rehearsed  the  gaits  he  had  studied 
from  the  creatures  on  the  plains. 

"  Look,  upper  half  of  the  Centaur,"  he  said, 
in  the  Centaur  language ;  "see  how  an  antelope 
goes ! " 


FULANO'S  BLOOD-STAIN.  287 

He  doubled  his  legs  under  him  and  went  off 
in  high,  jerky  leaps,  twice  his  length  every  one. 

"  Look !     A  bufifalo  !  " 

He  lumbered  along,  shoulders  low,  head  han- 
dled like  a  battering-ram,  and  tail  stiif  out  like  a 
steering-oar. 

"  Here  's  a  gray  wolf." 

And  he  shambled  forward  in  a  loose-jointed 
canter,  looking  back  furtively,  like  a  thief,  sorry 
he  didn  't  stop  to  steal  the  other  goose,  but  ex- 
pecting Stop  thief!  every  minute. 

"  And  so  go  I,  Don  Fulano,  the  Indomitable,  a 
chieftain  of  the  chiefest  race  below  the  man, — 
so  go  I  when  walk,  pace,  gallop,  run,  leap,  ca- 
reer, tread  space  and  time  out  of  being,  to  show 
the  other  half  of  the  Centaurship  what  my  half 
can  do  for  the  love  of  his." 

"  Magnificent !  "  applauded  Biddulph  at  this 
display. 

"  His  coquetries  are  as  beautiful  as  a  wo- 
man's," said  Brent.  "  One  whose  sweet  wiles 
are  nature,  not  artifice." 

And  I  —  but  lately  trained  to  believe  that  a 
woman  may  have  the  myriad  charm  of  coy  with- 
drawal, and  yet  not  be  the  traitress  youth  learns 
from  ancient  cynics  to  fear  —  accepted  the  com- 
parison. 

Ah,  peerless  Fulano !  that  was  our  last  love- 
passage  ! 


288  JOHN   BBENT. 

The  day,  after  the  crisp  frostmess  of  its  begin- 
ning, was  a  belated  day  of  Indian  summer ;  mild 
as  the  golden  mornings  of  that  calm,  luxurious 
time.  We  stopped  to  noon  in  a  sunny  spot  of 
open  pasture  near  a  wide  muddy  slough  of  the 
Missouri.  This  reservoir  for  the  brewage  of 
shakes  for  Pikes  had  been  refilled  in  some  autumn 
rise  of  the  river,  and  lay  a  great  stagnant  lake 
along  the  road-side,  a  mile  or  so  long,  two  hundred 
yards  broad.  Not  very  exhilarating  tipple,  but 
still  water ;  the  horses  would  not  disdain  it, 
after  their  education  on  the  plains  ;  we  could  qual- 
ify it  with  argee  from  our  flasks,  and  ice  it  with 
the  little  films  of  ice  unmelted  along  the  pool's 
edges.  We,  were  fortified  with  a  bag  of  corn  for 
the  horses,  and  a  cold  chicken  for  the  men. 

We  camped  by  a  fallen  cottonwood  near  the 
slough.  The  atmosphere  was  hopeful.  We  pic- 
nicked merrily,  men  and  beasts.  "  Three  gentle- 
men at  once"  over  a  chicken  soon  dissipated  this 
and  its  trimmings.  We  lighted  the  tranquil  cal- 
umet, and  lounged,  watching  our  horses  at  their 
corn. 

Presently  we  began  to  fancy  we  heard,  then  to 
think  we  heard,  at  last  to  be  sure  we  heard  the 
baying  of  hounds  through  the  mild,  golden  air. 

"  Tally-ho  !  "  cried  Biddulph,  "  what  a  day  for 
a  fox-hunt !  This  haze  will  make  the  scent  lie 
almost  as  well  as  the  clouds." 


FULANO'S   BLOOD-STADT.  289 

"  Music  !    Music  !  "    cried    he   again,   spring- 
ing up,  as  the  sound,  increasing,  rose  and  fell 
along  the  peaceful  air  that  lay  on  earth  so  lov 
ingiy. 

"  Music,  if  it  were  in  Merrie  England,  where 
the  hunt  are  gentlemen.  A  cursed  uproar  here, 
where  the  hunt  are  man-stealers,"  said  Brent. 

"  No,"  said  Biddulph.  "  Those  are  fables  of 
the  old,  barbarous  days  of  the  Maroons.  I  can't 
believe  in  dogs  after  men,  until  I  see  it." 

"  I  'm  afraid  it 's  our  friend  Ham  they  are  af- 
ter.    This  would  be  his  line  of  escape." 

At  the  word,  a  rustling  in  the  bushes  along 
the  slough,  and  Ham  burst  through.  He  turned 
to  run.  We  shouted.  He  knew  us,  and  flung 
himself,  livid  with  terror  and  panting  with  flight, 
on  the  ground  at  our  feet, — the  "pop'lar  nig- 
ger "  ! 

"  0  Massa  !  "  he  gasped.  "  Dey  's  gone  sot 
de  dogs  on  me.     What  '11 1  do  !  " 

"  Can  you  swim,"  said  I,  —  for  to  me  he  was 
kneeling. 

"  No,  Massa  ;  or  I  'd  been  across  thisyer  sloo 
fore  dis." 

"  Can  you  ride !  " 

"  Reck'n  I  kin,  Massa." 

A  burst  of  baying  from  the  hounds. 

The  black  shook  with  terror. 

I   sprang   to   Fulano.      "  Work  for   you,   old 
13  s 


290  JOHN   BRENT. 

boy !  "  said  I  to  him,  as  I  flung  the  snaffle  over 
his  head. 

"  Take  mine ! "  said  ray  two  friends  at  a 
breath. 

"  No ;  Fulano  understands  this  business.  Chase 
or  flight,  all  one  to  him,  so  he  baffles  the  Brutes." 

Fulano  neighed  and  beat  the  ground  with 
eager  hoofs  as  I  buckled  the  bridle. 

"  Can't  we  show  fight  ?  "  said  Biddulph. 

"  There  '11  be  a  dozen  on  the  hunt.  It  is  one 
of  the  entertainments  hereabouts.  Besides,  they 
would  raise  the  posse  upon  us.  You  forget 
we  're  in  a  Slave  State,  an  enemy's  country." 

I  led  Fulano  to  the  brink.  He  stood  motion- 
less, eying  me,  just  as  he  eyed  me  in  that  terri- 
ble pause  in  Luggernel  Alley. 

"  Here,  Ham,  up  with  you  !  Put  across  the 
slough.  He  swims  like  an  alligator.  Then  make 
for  the  north  star,  and  leave  the  horse  for  Mr. 
Richard  Wade,  at  the  Tremont  House,  Chicago. 
Treat  him  like  a  brother,  Ham  !  " 

"  Lor  bress  you,  Massa !  I  will  dat." 

He  vaulted  up,  like  "  a  sprightly  nigger,  one 
of  the  raal  ambitious  sort." 

The  baying  came  nearer,  nearer,  ringing  sweetly 
through  the  golden  quiet  of  noon. 

I  launched  Fulano  with  an  urgent  whisper. 

Two  hundred  yards  to  swim !  and  then  all 
clear  to  Freedom ! 


FULANO'S   BLOOD-STAIN.  291 

Pulano  splashed  in  and  took  deep  water  mag- 
nificently. 

What  a  sight  it  is  to  see  a  noble  horse  nobly 
breast  the  flood,  —  to  see  his  shoulders  thrust 
aside  the  stream,  his  breath  come  quick,  his  eyes 
flash,  his  haunches  lift,  his  wake  widen  after 
him ! 

And  then — Act  2  —  how  grand  it  is  to  see 
him  paw  and  struggle  up  with  might  and  main 
upon  the  farther  bank, — to  see  him  rise,  all 
glossy  and  reeking,  shake  himself,  and,  with 
a  snort,  go  galloping  free  and  away  !  Aha !  a 
sight  to  be  seen ! 

We  stood  watching  Act  1.  The  fugitive  was 
half-way  across.  The  baying  came  closer,  closer 
on  his  trail. 

Two  thirds  across. 

The  baying  ceased.  The  whole  pack  drew  a 
long  wail. 

"  They  see  him,"  said  Biddulph. 

Almost  across !  A  dozen  more  plunges,  Fu- 
lano ! 

A  crowd  of  armed  men  on  horseback  dashed 
up  to  the  bank  two  hundred  yards  above  us.  It 
was  open  where  they  halted.  They  could  not 
see  us  among  the  bushes  on  the  edge  of  the 
slough. 

One  of  them  —  it  was  Murker  —  sprang  from 
his  saddle.      He    pointed    his    rifle    quick    and 


292  JOHN  BEENT. 

steady.      Horse   and    man,   the   fugitives,   were 
close  to  the  bank  and  the  thicket  of  safety. 

Ping ! 

Almost  over,  as  the  rifle  cracked.  Ham  had 
turned  at  the  sound  of  his  pursuers  crashing 
through  the  buslies.  Fulano  swam  high.  He 
bore  a  proud  head  aloft,  conscious  of  his  brave 
duty.  It  was  but  a  moment  since  he  had  dashed 
away,  and  the  long  lines  of  his  wake  still  rippled 
against  tlie  hither  bank. 

We  heard  the  bullet  sing.  It  missed  the  man 
as  he  turned.  It  struck  Fulano.  Blood  spirted 
from  a  great  artery.     He  floundered  forward. 

Ham  caught  the  bushes  on  the  bank,  pulled 
himself  ashore,  and  clutched  for  the  bridle. 

Poor  Fulano !  He  flung  his  head  up  and 
pawed  the  surface  with  a  great  spasm.  He 
screamed  a  death-scream,  like  that  terrible  cry  of 
anguish  of  his  comrade  martyred  in  the  old  he- 
roic cause  in  Luggernel  Alley.  We  could  see 
his  agonized  eye  turn  back  in  the  socket,  sending 
toward  us  a  glance  of  farewell. 

Noble  horse !  again  a  saviour.  He  yielded  and 
sank  slowly  away  into  that  base  ditch. 

But  Ham,  was  he  safe  ?  He  had  disappeared 
in  the  thicket.  His  pursuers  called  the  hounds 
and  galloped  off  to  chase  him  round  the  slough. 

Ham  was  safe.  He  got  off  to  freedom.  From 
his  refuge  in  Chicago  he  writes  me  that  he  is 


FULANO'S   BLOOD-STAIN.  293 

"pop'lar"  ;  that  he  has  "sot  up  a  Livery  Insti- 
tootion,  and  has  a  most  a  bewterful  black  colt 
a  gTowin'  up  fur  me." 

Ham  was  saved;  but  Fulano  gone.  Dead 
by  Murker's  rifle.  The  brother  had  strangely 
avenged  his  brother,  trampled  to  death  in  the  far- 
away canon  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Strange 
Nemesis  for  a  guiltless  crime !  That  blood-stain 
for  a  righteous  execution  clung  to  him.  Only 
his  own  blood-shedding  could  cleanse  him. 

We  three  on  the  bank  looked  at  each  other  for- 
lornly. The  Horse,  our  Hero,  had  passed  away 
from  the  scene,  a  marytr. 

We  turned  to  our  journey  with  premonitions 
of  sorrowful  ill. 


CHAPTER    XXVIIT. 

short's  cut-off. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Wade  :  — 
"  We  are  hastening  on.  I  can  write  you  but 
one  word.  Our  journey  has  been  prosperous. 
Mr.  Armstrong  is  very  kind.  My  dear  father, 
I  fear,  is  shattered  out  of  all  steadiness.  God 
guard  him,  and  guide  me !  My  undying  love 
to  your  friend. 

"  Your  sister, 

"  Ellen  Clitheroe." 

Armstrong  handed  us  this  note  at  St.  Louis. 
Biddulph,  once  a  sentimental  pinkling,  now  a 
bronzed  man  of  the  wilds,  exhibited  for  this  occa- 
sion only  the  phenomenon  of  a  brace  or  so  of 
tears.     I  loved  him  for  his  strong  sorrow. 

"  It 's  not  for  myself,  Wade,"  he  said.  "  I  can 
stand  her  loving  John,  and  not  knowing  that  she 
has  me  for  brother  too  ;  I  'm  not  of  the  lacrymose 
classes ;  but  this  mad  error  of  the  father  and  this 
hopeless  faithfulness  of  the  daughter  touches  me 
tenderly.  And  here  we  are  three  weeks  or  more 
behind  them." 


SHORT'S    CUT-OFF.  295 

«'  Yes,"  said  Ai-mstrong,  "  full  three  weeks  to 
the  notch ;  an  ef  ayry  one  of  you  boys  sets  any 
store  by  'em,  you  'd  better  be  pintin'  along  their 
trail  afore  it  gets  cold.  That 's  what  I  allow. 
He's  onsafe, — the  old  man  is.  As  fine-hearted 
a  bein'  as  ever  was  ;  but  luck  has  druv  him  out 
of  hisself  and  made  a  reg'lar  gonopli  of  him." 

"  GoNOPH  is  vernacular  for  Drapetomaniac,  I 
suppose,"  said  I ;  "  and  a  better  word  it  is.  Miss 
Ellen  bore  the  journey  well,  Armstrong  ?  " 

"  That  there  young  woman  is  made  out  of  watch- 
spring.  Ther  ain't  no  stop  to  her.  The  more 
you  pile  on,  the  springier  she  gits.  She  was  a 
mile  an  hour  more  to  the  train  comin'  on.  We 
did  n't  have  any tlimg  ugly  happen  until  we  got 
to  the  river.  We  cum  down  from  Independence 
in  the  Floatin'  Pallis,  No.  5.  Some  er  them  gam- 
blin'  Pikes  on  board  got  a  holt  on  the  old  man. 
He 's  got  his  bead  drawed  on  makin'  a  pile  again, 
and  allows  that  gamblin'  with  Pikes  on  a  river- 
boat  is  one  of  the  ways.  He  sot  his  white  head 
down  to  the  poker-table,  and  stuck  thar,  lookin' 
sometimes  sly  as  a  kioty,  sometimes  mean  and 
ugly  as  a  gray  wolf,  and  sometimes  like  a  dead 
ephergee  cut  out  er  chalked  wax.  She  nor  I 
could  n't  do  nothin'  with  him.  So  I  ambushed 
the  gamblers,  an  twarn't  much  arter  midnight 
when  I  cotched  'em  cheatin'  the  old  man.  They 
could  n't  wait  to  take  his  pile  slow  an'  sure.    So  I 


296  JOHN  BRENT. 

called  an  indignation  meetin',  and  when  I  told  the 
boys  aboard  I  was  Luke  Armstrong  from  Oregon, 
they  made  me  chairman,  an'  guv  me  three  cheers. 
I  know'd  it  warn't  pollymentary  for  the  chairman 
to  make  motions,  but  I  motioned  we  shove  the 
hul  kit  an  boodle  of  the  gamblers  ashore  on  logs. 
'T  was  kerried,  quite  you-an-I-an-a-muss.  So 
we  guv  'em  a  fair  show,  with  a  big  stick  of  cotton- 
wood  and  a  shingle  apiece,  and  told  'em  to  navi- 
gate. The  Cap'n  slewed  the  Pallis's  head  round 
and  opened  the  furnace-doors  to  light  'em  across, 
and  they  poot  for  shore,  with  everybody  yellin',  and 
the  Pallis  blowin'  her  whistle  like  all  oudoors.'' 

"  That  's   the   American    method,  Biddulph," 
said  I.    "  Lynch-law  is  nothing  but  the  sovereign 
people's  law,  executed  without  the  intervention 
of  the  forms  the  people  usually  adopt  for  con 
venience." 

"  With  Armstrong  for  judge,  it  may  do,"  said 
Biddulph. 

"  After  that,"  continued  Armstrong,  "  we  got 
on  well,  except  that  the  old  man  kep  on  the 
stiddy  tramp  up  an'  down  the  boat,  when  he 
warn't  starin'  at  the  engyne,  and  Ellen  could  n't 
quiet  him  down.  He  got  hash  with  her,  too,  and 
that  ain't  like  his  nater.  His  nater  is  a  sweet 
nater,  with  considerable  weakenin'  into  it.  Well, 
when  we  got  here,  I  paid  their  ticket  plum 
through  to  York  out  of  my  own  belt,  and  shoved 


SHORT'S   CUT-OFF.  297 

a  nest  er  dimes  into  the  carpet-bag  she  asked  me 
to  buy  her.  But  money  wunt  help  the  old  man. 
I  don't  believe  anything  but  dyin'  will.  I  never 
would  have  let  'em  go  on  alone  ef  I  had  n't  had 
my  own  Ellen,  and  all  my  brother  Bill's  big  and 
little  ones  to  keep  drivin'  for.  Now,  boys,  I  git 
more  'n  more  oneasy  the  more  I  talk  about  'em  ; 
but  I  ken  put  you  on  the  trail,  and  if  Mr.  Brent 
is  as  sharp  on  trails  where  men  is  thick,  as  he  is 
where  men  is  scerce,  and  if  she 's  got  a  holt  on  him 
still,  he  '11  find  'em,  and  help  'em  through." 

"  That  I  will,  Armstrong,"  said  Brent. 

And  next  morning  we  three  pursued  our,  chase 
across  the  continent. 

At  New  York  another  hurried  note  for  me. 

"  "We  sail  at  once  for  home.  My  father  cannot 
be  at  peace  until  he  is  in  Lancashire  again. 
Don't  forget  me,  dear  friends.     I  go  away  sick 

at  heart. 

"  Ellen  Clitheroe." 

They  left  me,  —  the  lover  and  the  ex-lover,  — 
and  followed  on  over  seas. 

I  had  my  sister's  orphans  to  protect  and  my 
bread  to  win.  The  bigger  the  crowd,  the  more  to 
pay  tribute  to  an  Orson  like  myself.  I  fancied  that 
I  could  mine  to  more  advantage  in  New  York  than 
at  the  Foolonner.  There  are  sixpences  in  the 
straw  of  every  omnibus  for  somebody  to  find. 

13* 


298  JOHN   BRENT. 

I  am  not  to  maunder  about  myself.  So  I  omit 
the  story  how  I  saw  a  vista  in  new  life,  hewed  in 
and  took  up  a  "  claim,"  which  I  have  held  good 
and  am  still  improving. 

Meantime  nothing  from  Brent,  —  nothing  from 
Miss  Clitheroe.  I  grew  bitterly  anxious  for  both, 
—  the  brother  and  the  sister  of  my  adoption. 
These  ties  of  choice  are  closer  than  ties  of  blood, 
unless  the  hearts  are  kindred  as  well  as  the 
bodies.  My  sister  Ellen,  chosen  out  of  all  wo- 
manhood and  made  precious  to  me  by  the  agony 
I  had  known  for  her  sake,  —  I  could  not  endure 
the  thought  that  she  had  forgotten  me  ;  still  less 
the  dread  that  her  father  had  dragged  her  into 
some  voiceless  misery. 

And  Brent.  I  knew  that  he  did  not  write, 
because  he  must  thus  set  before  his  eyes  in  black, 
cruel  words  that  his  pursuit  had  been  vain.  The 
love  that  conquered  time  and  space  had  beaten 
down  and  slain  Brutality,  —  was  it  to  be  baffled 
at  last  ?  I  longed  to  be  with  him,  lending  my 
cruder  force  to  his  finer  skill  in  the  search. 
Together  we  might  prevail,  as  we  had  before  pre- 
vailed. But  I  saw  no  chance  of  joining  him.  I 
must  stay  and  earn  my  bread  at  my  new  business. 

Nothing,  still  nothing  from  the  lady  or  the 
lover,  and  I  suffered  for  both.  I  wrote  Brent, 
and  re-wrote  him ;  but  no  answer. 

That  winter,  my  old  friend  Short  perfected  his 


SHORT'S    CUT-OFF.  299 

famous  Cut-off.  Everybody  now  knows  Short's 
Cut-off.  It  saves  thirty  per  cent  of  steam  and 
fifty  per  cent  of  trouble  and  wear  and  tear  to 
engineer  and  engine. 

Short  burst  into  my  office  one  morning.  He 
and  Brent  and  I,  and  a  set  of  other  fellows 
worth  knowing,  had  been  comrades  in  our 
younger  days.  We  still  hold  together,  with  a 
common  purpose  to  boost  civilization,  so  far  as 
our  shoulders  will  do  it. 

"Look  at  that,"  cried  Short,  depositing  a 
model  and  sheets  of  drawings  on  my  table. 
"  My  Cut-off.     What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

I  looked,  and  was  thrilled.  It  was  a  simple, 
splendid  triumph  of  inventive  genius,  —  a  diffi- 
culty solved  so  easily,  that  it  seemed  laughable 
that  no  one  had  ever  tl^ought  of  this  solution. 

"  Short,"  said  I,  "  this  is  Fine  Art.  Hurrah 
for  the  nineteenth  century  !  How  did  you  hap- 
pen to  hit  it  ?     It  is  an  inspiration." 

"  It  was  love  that  revealed  it,"  said  Short.  "  I 
have  been  pottering  over  that  cut-off  for  years, 
while  She  did  not  smile;  when  She  smiled,  it 
came  to  me  hke  a  sneeze." 

"  Well,  you  have  done  the  world  good,  and 
made  your  fortune." 

"  Yours  too,  old  fellow,  if  you  like.  Pack  up 
that  model  and  the  drawings,  go  to  England, 
France,   Germany,  wherever   they  know   steam 


300  JOHN  BRENT. 

from  tobacco-smoke,  take  out  patents,  and  intro- 
duce it.  Old  Churm  says  he  will  let  me  have 
half  a  million  dollars,  if  I  want  it.  You  shall 
have  free  tap  of  funds,  and  charge  what  per- 
centage you  think  proper." 

So  I  took  steamer  for  England,  with  Short's 
Cut-off  to  make  known. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

A  LOST  TRAIL. 

It  was  June  when  I  reached  London.  Busi- 
ness, not  fashion,  was  my  object.  I  wished  to 
be  at  a  convenient  centre  of  tliat  mighty  hud- 
dle of  men  and  things  ;  so  I  drove  to  Smorley's 
Hotel,  Charing  Cross. 

In  America,  landlords  dodge  personal  respon- 
sibility. They  name  their  hotels  after  men  of 
letters,  statesmen,  saints,  and  other  eminent  par- 
ties. Guests  will  perhaps  find  a  great  name 
compensation  for  infinitesimal  comfort. 

Tliey  do  these  things  difierently  in  England. 
Smorley  does  not  dodge.  Not  Palmerston,  nor 
Wordsworth,  nor  Spurgeon,  is  emblazoned  in 
smoky  gold  on  Smorley's  sign;  but  Smorley. 
Curses  or  blessings,  therefore,  Smorley  himself 
gets  them.  Nobody  scowls  at  the  sirloia,  and 
grumbles,  sotto  voce,  "  Palmerston  has  cut  it 
too  fat  to-day" ;  nobody  tosses  between  the  sheets 
and  prays,  "  0  Wordsworth,  why  didst  thou  be- 
grudge me  the  Insect-Exterminator  ?  "  Nobody 
complains,  "  Spurgeon's   beer   is   all   froth,  and 


302  JOHN   BRENT. 

small  at  that."  Smorley,  and  Smorley  alone, 
gets  credit  for  beef,  beds,  and  beer. 

Smorley's  Hotel  stands  at  the  verge  of  the  East, 
and  looks  toward  the  West  End  of  London.  The 
Strand  passes  by  its  side,  so  thick  with  men, 
horses,  and  vehicles,  that  only  a  sharp  eye  view- 
ing it  from  above  detects  the  pavement.  The 
mind  wearies  with  the  countless  throng,  going 
and  coming  in  that  narrow  lane,  and  turns  to 
look  on  the  permanent  features  of  Smorley's 
landscape. 

The  chief  object  in  the  view  is  a  certain  second- 
rate  square,  named  to  commemorate  a  certain 
first-rate  victory.  But  the  square,  second-rate 
though  it  be,  is  honored  by  a  first-rate  railing,  a 
balustrade  of  bulky  granite,  which  may  be  valu- 
able for  defence  when  Crapaud  arrives  to  avenge 
Trafalgar.  Inside  the  stone  railing,  which  is  fur- 
ther protected  by  a  barricade  of  cabs,  with  drivers 
asleep  and  horses  m  nose-bags,  are  sundry  very 
large  stone  fountains,  of  very  smoky  granite, 
trickhng  with  very  small  trickles  of  water,  which 
channel  the  basins  as  tears  channel  the  face  of  a 
dirty  boy.  The  square  is  on  a  slope,  and  seems 
to  be  sliding  away,  an  avalanche  of  water-basins, 
cabs,  and  balustrade,  from  a  certain  very  ugly 
edifice,  severely  classic  in  some  spots,  classic  as  a 
monkish  Latin  ballad  in  others,  and  well  sprouted 
at  the  top  with  small  sentry-boxes,  perhaps  shel 


A  LOST    TRAIL.  303 

ters  for  sharp-shooters,  should  anybody  venture  to 
look  mustard  at  the  building.  A  bronze  horse- 
man, on  a  bronze  horse  sixteen  hands  high,  is  at 
work  at  the  upper  corner  of  the  square,  trying  to 
drive  it  down  hill.  A  bronze  footman,  on  a  col- 
umn sixteen  hundred  feet  high,  or  thereabouts, 
stands  at  the  foot  of  the  square,  hailing  that  fu- 
gacious enclosure  from  under  a  nautical  cocked 
hat  to  do  its  duty,  as  England  expects  everything 
English  will,  and  not  to  run  away  from  the  ugly 
edifice  above. 

Such  is  the  square  at  the  very  centre  of  the 
centre  of  the  world,  as  I  saw  it  from  Smorley's 
corner  window,  while  dining  in  the  June  twi- 
light, the  evening  of  my  arrival  in  London. 

I  sat  after  dinner  looking  complacently  out  up- 
on the  landscape.  A  man  never  attains  to  that 
stolidity  of  content  except  in  England,  where  the 
air's  exciting  oxygen  is  well  weakened  with  fog, 
aud  the  air's  exhilarating  ozone  is  quite  dis- 
charged from  dancing  attendance.  London  and 
England  were  not  strange  to  me ;  but  a  great  city 
is  ever  new,  and  after  two  years'  inane  staring  at 
a  quartz-mine,  town  and  townsfolk  were  still 
lively  contrast  to  my  mind. 

I  was  quietly  entertaining  myself,  sipping 
meanwhile  my  pint  of  Port,  —  Fine  old  Crusty, 
it  was  charged  in  the  bill,  when  I  saw  coming 
down  St.  Martin's  Lane,  between  the  cabs  and 


304  JOHN   BRENT. 

the  balustrade  of  the  square,  two  gentlemen  I 
knew. 

Brent  and  Biddulph!  Biddulph,  surely 
There  could  be  no  mistakmg  that  blonde,  manly 
giant,  relapsed  again  into  modified  Anglicism  of 
dress  ;  but  walking  freely  along,  with  a  step  that 
remembered  the  prairie. 

But  that  pale,  feeble  fellow  hanging  on  the 
other's  arm!  Could  that  be  John  Brent?  He 
was  sloucliing  along,  looking  upon  the  ground, 
a  care-worn,  dejected  man.  It  cost  me  a  sharp 
pang  to  see  my  brilliant  friend  so  vanquished 
by  a  sorrow  I  could  comprehend. 

I  sprang  up,  snatched  my  hat,  and  rushed  out. 
Eight  quiet  men,  dining  systematically  at  eight 
tables  in  the  coffee-room,  were  startled  at  a  ra- 
pidity of  movement  quite  unknown  to  the  pre- 
cincts of  Smorley,  and  each  of  the  eight  choked 
over  his  mouthful,  were  it  ox-tail,  salmon,  mutton, 
bread,  or  Fine  old  Crusty.  Eight  waiters,  caught 
in  the  act  of  saying  "  Yessir  !  D'rectly  Sir !  " 
were  likewise  shocked  into  momentary  paralysis. 

I  dashed  across  the  street,  knocking  the  nose- 
bag off  the  forlorn  nose  of  a  hungry  cab-horse, 
and  laid  my  hand  on  my  friend's  shoulder.  He 
turned,  in  the  hasty,  nervous  manner  of  a  man 
who  is  expecting  something,  and  excited  with 
waiting. 

"  I  was  half  inclined  to  let  you  pass,"  said  I. 


A   LOST   TRAIL.  805 

"  Yon  have  not  written.  I  had  no  right  to  sup- 
pose you  aUve." 

"  I  could  only  write  to  pain  you  and  myself. 
I  have  not  found  her.  I  am  hardly  alive.  I 
shall  not  long  be." 

"  Come,"  said  Biddulph,  with  his  old  friendly, 
cheery  manner ;  "  now  that  Wade  has  joined  us, 
we  will  have  a  fresh  start,  and  better  luck.  Walk 
on  with  us.  Wade,  and  Brent  will  tell  you  what 
we  have  been  doing." 

"  Why  should  I  tire  him  with  the  weary  story 
of  a  fruitless  search  ?  "  said  Brent. 

It  was  the  same  utterly  disheartened  manner, 
the  same  tone  of  despair,  that  had  so  affected 
me  that  evening  on  the  plain  of  Fort  Bridger. 
Not  finding  whom  he  sought  waa  crushing  him 
now,  as  losing  her  crushed  him  then.  But  I 
thought  by  what  a  strange  and  fearful  mercy 
our  despair  of  that  desolate  time  had  been 
changed  to  joy.  Coming  newly  to  the  fact  of 
loss,  I  could  not  see  it  so  darkly  as  it  was 
present  to  him.  A  great  confidence  awoke  in 
me  that  our  old  partnership  renewed  would  pros- 
per.    I  determined  not  to  yield  to  his  mood. 

"Your  search,  then,  is  absolutely  fruitless," 
said  I.  "  Well,  if  she  is  not  dead,  she  must 
have  forgotten  us  ?  " 

"  Is  she  a  woman  to  forget  ? "  said  Brent, 
roused  a  little  by  my  wilful  calumny. 


306  JOHN  BRENT. 

"  Like  other  women,  I  suppose." 

"  You  must  have  forgotten  the  woman  we 
met  and  saved,  and  had  for  our  comrade,  to 
thmk  so." 

I  rejoiced  at  the  indignation  I  had  stirred. 

"  Why,  then,  has  she  never  written  ?  "  I  que- 
ried. 

"  I  am  sure  as  faith  that  she  has,  but  that  her 
father  has  cunningly  suppressed  her  letters." 

"  The  same  has  occurred  to  me.  The  poor 
old  fellow,  ashamed  of  his  Mormon  life,  would 
very  likely  be  unwilling  that  any  one  who  knew 
of  it  should  be  informed  of  his  whereabouts." 

"  He  might,  too,  have  an  undiscrimmating, 
senile  terror  of  any  letter  going  to  America, 
lest  it  should  set  Danites  upon  his  track,  as  a 
renegade.  He  might  fear  that  we  would  take 
his  daughter  from  him.  There  are  twenty  sup- 
positions to  make.  I  will  not  accept  that  of 
death  nor  of  neglect." 

"  No,"  said  Biddulph ;  "  dead  people  cannot 
hide  away  their  bodies,  as  living  can." 

"  You  know  that  they  are  in  England  ?  " 

"  They  landed  in  Liverpool  from  the  Screw. 
There  they  disappeared.  Biddulph  took  me  to 
Clitheroe,  up  to  the  old  Hall.  A  noble  place  it 
is.  It  is  poetry  to  have  been  born  there.  I  do 
not  wonder  Mr.  Clitheroe  loved  it." 

"  You  must  go  down  with  me,  Wade,  as  sooe 


A   LOST   TRAIL.  307 

as  the  season  is  over,"  said  Biddulph.  "  I  wish  I 
could  quarter  you  in  town.  Brent  is  with  me. 
But  you  will  dine  with  us  every  day,  when  you 
have  nothing  better  to  do,  and  be  at  home  with 
us  always.  I  can  give  you  flapjacks  and  mo- 
lasses, Laramie  fashion." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  fellow !  " 

"  You  must  not  think,"  says  Brent,  "  that  I 
went  up  to  Clitheroe  even  for  Biron's  hospitality. 
"We  were  both  on  the   search   all   through   the 
country.      We  thought  Mr.  Clitheroe  might  have 
betaken  himself  to  a  coal-mine  again.     We  dis- 
covered the  very  mine  where  he  formerly  worked. 
They  remembered  him  well.     The  older  genera- 
tion of  those  grimy  troglodytes  well  remembered 
Gentleman  Hugh  and  his  daughter,  little  Lady 
Ellen,  and  the   rough   fellows   and  their  rough 
wives  had  a  hundred  stories  to  tell  of  the  beauti- 
ful, gentle  child,  —  how  she  had  been  a  good  angel 
to  them,  and  already  a  protectress  to  her  father. 
In  the  office,  too,   of  the  coal-mine,  we  found 
traces  of  him  under  another  name,  always  faith- 
ful, honest,  respected,  and  a  gentleman.     It  was 
interesting  to  have  all  his  sad  story  confirmed, 
just  as  he  told  it   to   you  the  night  of  Jake 
Shamberlain's  ball ;    but   it   did  not  help   our 
search.     Then  we   enlarged  its   scope,  and  fol- 
lowed out  every  line  of  travel  from  Liverpool 
and  to  London,  the  great  monster,  that  draws  in 


BOS  JOHN   BRENT. 

all,  the  prosperous  and  the  ruined,  the  rich  to 
spend  and  the  poor  to  beg. 

"  We  have  had  some  queer  and  some  romantic 
adventures  in  our  search,  eh.  Brent  ?  Some 
rather  comic  runaways  wc  've  overhauled,"  said 
Biddulph  ;  "  but  we  '11  tell  you  of  them,  Wade, 
when  we  are  in  good  spirits  again,  and  with  our 
fugitives  by  us  to  hear  what  pains  we  took  for 
their  sake." 

"  And  all  this  while  you  have  found  no  trace  ?  " 
I  said. 

"  One  slight  trace  only,"  replied  my  friend  ; 
"enough  to  identify  them  disappearing  among 
these  millions  of  London.  We  found  a  porter  at 
the  Paddington  station,  who  had  seen  a  young 
lady  and  an  old  man  stepping  from  a  third-class 
carriage  of  a  night-train.  '  You  see,  sir,'  said 
the  man,  —  he  evidently  had  a  heart  under  liis 
olive  corduroys,  — '  I  marked  the  old  gent  and 
the  young  woman,  she  was  so  daughterly  with 
him.  I  've  got  a  little  girl  of  my  own,  and  may- 
hap I  shall  come  out  old  and  weakly,  and  she  '11 
have  to  look  after  me.  It  was  the  gray  of  the 
morning  when  the  train  come  in.  There  warn't 
many  passengers.  It  was  cold  winter  weather,  — 
the  month  of  February,  I  should  say.  The 
young  woman,  —  she  had  dark  hair,  and  looked 
as  if  she  was  one  to  go  through  thick  and  thin, 
—  she  jumped  out  of  the  carriage,  where  she  had 


A   LOST   TEAIL.  309 

been  settin'  all  that  cold  night,  and  gave  the  old 
gent  her  hand.  I  heard  her  call  him  "Father," 
and  tell  him  to  take  care  ;  and  he  had  need.  He 
seemed  to  be  stiff  with  cold.  He  was  an  old 
gent,  such  as  you  don't  see  every  day.  He  had 
a  long  white  beard,  —  a  kind  of  swallow-tail 
beard.  His  clothes,  too,  was  strange.  He  had  a 
long  gray  top-coat,  grayish  and  bluish,  with  a 
cape  of  the  same  over  his  shoulders,  and  brass 
buttons  stamped  with  an  eagle.  A  milingtary 
coat  it  was.  I  used  to  see  such  coats  on  the 
sentinels  in  France  when  I  went  over  to  dig  on 
the  Chalong  Railway.  The  old  gent  looked  like 
a  foreigner,  with  his  swallow-tail  beard  and  that 
milingtary  coat ;  but  there  was  an  Englishman 
under  the  coat,  if  I  knows  'em.  And  the  young 
woman,  sir,  was  English,  —  I  don't  believe  there  's 
any  such  out  of  Old  England.'  " 

"  It  must  be  they,"  cried  I.  "  I  saw  him  in 
that  very  coat,  tramping  up  and  down  like  a 
hunted  man,  beside  the  wagons  that  were  to  take 
him  from  Fort  Laramie." 

"  You  did  ?  That  completes  the  identification. 
But  what  good  ?  This  was  a  trace  of  them  in 
London ;  so  is  a  sailor's  cap  on  a  surge  a  token 
of  a  sailor  sunk  and  lying  somewhere  under  the 
gray  waste  of  sea.     We  lost  them  again  utterly." 

With  such  talk,  we  had  descended  from  Tra- 
falgar Square,  gone  down  Whitehall,  turned  in 


310  JOHN   BRENT. 

at  the  Horse  Guards,  and,  crossing  Green  Park, 
had  come  out  upon  Hyde  Park  Corner.  It  was 
the  very  top  moment  of  the  London  season. 
The  world,  all  sunshine  and  smiles  and  splendor, 
was  eddying  about  the  corner  of  Apsley  House. 
Piccadilly  was  a  flood  of  eager,  busy  people.  The 
Park  blossomed  with  gay  crowds.  But  under 
all  this  laughing  surface,  I  saw  with  my  mind's 
eye  two  solitary  figures  slowly  sinking  away  and 
drowning  drearily,  —  two  figures  solitary  except 
for  each  other,  —  a  pale,  calm  woman,  with  gray, 
steady  eyes,  leading  a  vague  old  man,  with  a 
white  beard  and  a  long  military  surtout. 

"  Lost  utterly  ! "  said  Brent  again,  as  if  in 
answer  to  my  thought. 

"  No,"  said  I,  shaking  off  this  despondency. 
"  We  have  seemed  to  lose  her  twice  more  des- 
perately than  now.  It  looked  darker  when  we 
left  them  at  Fort  Bridger;  much  darker  when 
we  knew  that  those  ruffians  had  got  time  and 
space  the  start  of  us ;  darkest  of  all  when  poor 
Pumps  fell  dead  in  Luggernel  Alley.  Searching 
in  a  Christian  city  is  another  thing  than  our 
agonized  chase  in  the  wilderness." 

"  A  Christian  city  !  "  said  Brent,  with  a  slight 
shudder.  "  You  do  not  know  what  this  Chris- 
tian city  is  for  a  friendless  woman.  There  are 
brutes  here  as  evil  and  more  numerous  than 
in  all  barbarism  together.     Many  times,  in  my 


A   LOST    TEAIL.  311 

searches  up  and  down  the  foul  slums  of  London, 
I  have  longed  to  exchange  their  walls  for  the 
walls  of  Luggernel  Alley,  and  endure  again  the 
frenzy  of  our  gallop  there.  You  think  mo  weak, 
perhaps,  Wade,  for  my  doubt  of  success ;  but 
remember  that  I  have  been  at  this  vain  search 
over  England  and  on  the  Continent  for  five 
months." 

"  But  understand.  Wade,"  said  Biddulph, 
"that  we  do  not  give  it  up,  although  we  have 
found  no  clew." 

"  Give  it  up !  "  cried  Brent  with  fervor.  "  I 
live  for  that  alone.  When  the  hope  ends,  I 
end." 

How  worn  he  looked,  "  with  grief  that 's  beau- 
ty's canker !  "  Life  was  wasting  from  him,  as 
it  ever  does  when  man  pursues  the  elusive  and 
unattained.  When  a  man  like  Brent  once  vol- 
untarily concentrates  all  his  soul  on  one  woman, 
worthy  of  his  love,  thenceforth  he  must  have 
love  for  daily  food,  or  life  burns  dim  and  is  a 
dying  flame. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  I,  halting  at  the  Park 
corner,  "  I  must  be  at  work  setting  my  business 
in  motion.  I  have  letters  to  write  this  evening, 
and  a  dozen  of  famous  mechanicians  to  see  to- 
morrow. In  the  evening  we  will  put  our  heads 
together  again." 

"  Over  my  claret  and  a  weed  after  it,  under- 
stand," said  Biddulph. 


312  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  Yes,  I  '11  try  whether  you  can  take  the  tast« 
of  Missouri  argee  and  pigtail  out  of  my  mouth." 

"  You  must  be  prepared  to  be  made  a  lion 
of  by  my  mother  and  cousins.  They  know  the 
history  of  Don  Fulano  as  well  as  a  poet  knows 
the  pedigree  of  Pegasus.  I  have  brought  tears 
to  many  gentle  eyes  with  the  story  of  his  martyr- 
dom for  liberty." 

"  Ah,  Fulano  !  if  we  only  had  him  here  !  He 
would  know  how  to  aid  us." 

I  left  them,  and  walked  down  Piccadilly  to 
Smorley's.  Some  of  the  eight  waiters,  who  had 
seen  me  bolt,  still  regarded  me  with  affright. 
I  wrote  my  letters  and  went  to  bed. 

My  brain  was  still  rolling  in  my  skull  with 
the  inertia  of  its  sea  voyage.  The  blur  and 
bustle  of  London  perplexed  me.  I  slept ;  but 
in  my  worried  sleep  I  seemed  to  hear,  above 
the  roar  in  the  streets,  a  far-away  scream  of  a 
woman,  as  I  had  heard  it  in  the  pause  of  the 
gale  at  Fort  Bridger.  Then  I  seemed  to  have 
unhorsed  the  Iron  Duke  from  his  seat  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner,  and,  mounted  in  his  place  and 
armed  with  the  Nelson  Column  for  a  lance,  to 
be  charging  along  the  highways  and  by-ways  of 
London  in  chase  of  two  dim,  flying  figures,  —  a 
lady  pale  as  death,  and  a  weary  man  in  a  long 
gray  surtout. 


OHAPTER    XXX. 


LONDON. 


Short's  Otit-off  shut  out  all  oilier  subjects  from 
my  head  uext  moruing. 

It  was  au  hmovation,  a  revolution.  Mankmd 
objects  to  both.  It  came  from  America,  and 
though  America  has  given  tobacco,  woman's 
rights,  the  potato,  model  yachts,  model  States, 
and  trotting  horses  to  the  Old  World,  that  World 
still  distrusts  our  work  as  boyish.  We  in  turn 
tieem  the  Old  World  a  mere  child,  and  our  youth 
based  on  a  completer  maturity  than  they  will  at 
tain  for  half  a  millennium. 

Short's  Cut-off  was  so  simple  that  it  puzzled 
everybody. 

I  consulted  half  a  dozen  eminent  engineers. 

"  Very  pretty,  indeed  !  "  they  said,  and  at  onco 
turned  the  conversation  to  the  explosions  on 
Western  rivers.  "  Had  I  ever  been  blown  up  ? 
How  did  it  feel  ?  " 

But  as  to  Short's  Cut-off,  they  only  thought  it 
a  neat  contrivance,  but  evidently  by  a  person 
who  did  not  comprehend  intricate  machinery. 


14^ 


314  JOHN   BRENT 

I  took  it  to  a  man  of  another  order.  England 
is  the  "world's  machine-shop ;  he  was  England's 
chief  engmeer.  A  great  man  he  was,  dead, 
alas !  now.  A  freeman,  who  recognized  the  world 
as  his  country,  and  genius  everywhere  as  his 
brother. 

He  understood  Short's  Cut-off  at  a  glance. 

How  I  wish  old  Short  could  have  been  there, 
to  see  this  great  man's  eye  glow  with  enthusiasm 
as  he  said :  "  Admirable !  This  is  what  we  have 
all  been  waiting  for,  Padiham  must  see  this.  We 
must  have  it  in  every  engine  in  England.  Com- 
mand my  services  to  aid  in  making  it  known." 

"  Can  you  recommend  me,"  said  I,  presently, 
"  a  thorough  mechanic.  I  want  some  more  mod- 
els made  of  these  valves  and  machinery,  to  il- 
lustrate their  action." 

"  You  must  go  to  Padiham,  the  best  artisan  T 
know  in  all  England." 

"  Worth  seeing  for  himself,  as  the  man  whom 
you  name  best  among  these  millions  of  crafts- 
men." 

"  Padiham  is  the  man.'' 

"  He  ought  to  have  name  and  fame." 

"He  might  if  he  chose." 

"  Worth  knowing,  again,  for  this  rare  abnega- 
tion." 

"  He  is  an  oddity.  Some  unlucky  mode  of  life 
stunted  him,  mind  and  body,  until  he  was  a  ma- 


LONDON.  815 

ture  mail.  He  is  dwarfed  in  person,  and  fancies 
his  mind  suffers  too.  It  makes  him  a  little  gruff 
to  feel  that  he  is  a  man  of  tools,  and  not  of  princi- 
ples, —  a  mechanic,  not  a  philosopher.  There  is 
nothing  of  morbidness  or  disappomtment  in  him. 
Only  he  underrates  himself,  and  fancies  his  pow- 
ers blunted  by  his  deformity.  He  keeps  out  of  the 
way,  and  works  alone  in  a  little  shop.  He  will 
only  do  special  jobs  for  me  and  one  or  two  oth- 
ers. He  says  he  would  be  our  equal,  if  he  were 
full-grown.  We  deem  him  our  peer,  and  treat 
him  as  such  ;  but  he  will  not  come  out  and  take 
the  place  he  could  have  at  once  before  the  world. 
I  thought  of  him,  and  wished  him  to  see  this  Cut- 
off, as  soon  as  you  showed  it  to  me.  You  must 
tell  him  I  sent  you,  or  he  may  be  surly  at  first, 
and  so  drive  you  away,  or  perhaps  refuse  to  do 
your  work." 

"  I  think  I  can  make  my  way  with  such  a  per- 
son ;  but  if  not,  I  will  use  your  name.  Where  is 
he  to  be  found  ?  " 

"This  is  his  address.  An  out-of-the-way  place, 
you  see,  if  you  know  London.  A  by-street  on 
the  Surrey  side  of  the  Thames.  He  is  well  to 
do ;  but  lives  there  for  a  special  economy.  He  has 
a  method  of  charity,  which  is  like  himself  thor- 
oughly original.  More  good  he  does  in  his  odd 
way  than  any  man  I  know.  He  owns  the  whole 
house  over  his  shop,  and  uses   it  as   a  private 


316  JOHN   BKENT. 

hospital  or  hospice  for  poor  but  w^orthy  sick  and 
broken-down  people." 

"His  own  dwarfishness  makes  him  sympa- 
thetic?" 

"  Yes  ;  instead  of  souring,  it  softens  him  to 
the  feeble.  He  may  perhaps  feel  a  transitory 
resentment  at  big,  strong  fellows  like  you  and 
me  ;  but  he  is  always  tender  to  the  weak.  His 
wonderful  knowledge  of  machinery  comes  into 
play  in  his  hospital.  From  the  machines  man 
makes,  he  has  passed  to  a  magical  knowledge  of 
the  finest  machine  of  all." 

"  The  human  body  ?  " 

"  The  machine  that  invents  and  executes  ma- 
chines, the  human  body,  —  the  most  delicate 
mechanism  of  all,  the  type  of  all  its  own  inven- 
tions. Padiham  achieves  magical  cures.  He  is 
working  by  practice,  and  lately  by  study,  into 
profound  surgical  skill.  There  is  no  man  in 
England  whom  I  would  trust  to  mend  me  if  I 
broke,  as  I  would  Padiham." 

"  He  avenges  himself  upon  Nature  for  not  per- 
fecting him,  by  restoring  her  breakages.  Why 
do  you  not  suggest  to  him  to  become  a  professed 
repairer  of  mankind  ?  " 

"  I  have  suggested  it.  He  says  he  must  take 
his  own  way.  Besides,  mechanics  can  hardly 
spare  him.  Many  of  my  own  inventions  would 
have  stayed  in  embryo  in  my  brain,  if  Padiham 


LONDON.  317 

had  not  played  Tulcan,  and  split  a  passage  for 
them.  I  talk  over  my  schemes  to  him ;  he 
catches  the  idea  and  puts  it  into  form  at  once." 

"  You  interest  me  very  much,"  said  I.  "  I 
must  see  the  man  and  know  him,  for  my  own 
sake  as  well  as  for  Short's  Cut-off." 

"  Take  care  he  does  not  drive  you  away  in  a 
huff.     You  '11  find  him  a  rough-hewn  bit." 

I  went  at  once.  A  man  who  had  warred  with 
Pikes  at  the  Foolonner  Mine,  to  say  nothing  of 
other  ruder  characters,  was  not  to  be  baffled,  so 
he  trusted,  by  a  surly  genius. 

As  I  walked  through  the  crush  of  the  streets, 
again  there  came  to  me  that  vision  of  the  old 
man  and  his  daughter  lost  in  the  press,  —  more 
sadly  lost,  more  vainly  seeking  refuge  here,  than 
m  the  desert  solitudes  where  we  had  found  them. 

Every  one  familiar  with  great  cities  knows  of 
strange  rencounters  there,  and  at  every  turn  I 
looked  narrowly  about,  fancying  that  I  should 
see  the  forms  I  sought,  just  vanishing,  but  leav- 
ing me  a  clew  of  pursuit.  This  expectation  grew 
so  intense,  that  I  exaggerated  slight  resemblances 
of  costume  or  of  port,  and  often  found  myself 
excitedly  hurrying  quite  out  of  my  way,  and 
shouldering  through  huddles  of  people,  to  come 
at  some  figure  in  the  distance.  But  when  I  over- 
took the  old  man  of  feeble  step,  or  the  young 
woman  moving  fearlessly  amid  the  pitiless  crowd, 


318  .  JOHN   BRENT. 

or  the  pair  I  had  followed,  and  stared  at  them 
eagerly,  strange  and  offended  looks  met  me  in- 
stead of  the  familiar,  perhaps  the  welcome,  look 
I  had  hoped  ;  and  I  tarned  away  forlornly  exag- 
gerating the  disappointment  as  I  had  the  fancy. 

I  cooled  at  last  from  this  flurry.  Nothing  but 
blanks  in  the  lottery.  It  was  folly  to  be  wasting 
my  energy  in  this  way.  Trusting  Providence,  or 
rather  this  semblance  of  Providence,  this  mere 
chance,  was  thin  basis  for  action.  So  I  resumed 
my  proper  course,  and  turned  my  steps  quietly 
toward  Padiham's  shop. 

But  when  presently  I  stood  upon  London 
Bridge,  between  two  cities  of  men,  between  the 
millions  I  had  escaped  and  the  million  I  was  to 
plunge  among,  a  great  despair  grew  heavier  and 
heavier  upon  me. 

This  terrible  throng,  here  as  everywhere  hurry- 
ing by  me  !  And  I  compelled  to  note  every  man 
and  every  woman,  and  to  say  to  myself,  "  This  is 
not  he," — "This  is  not  she," — "These  are  not 
they !  "  All  the  while  this  stream  of  negatives 
rushing  by,  and  every  one  bearing  a  little  fraction 
of  hope  away. 

In  that  great  city  —  in  its  nests  and  its  prisons 
—  were  people  who  had  been  living  side  by  side 
for  a  life-time,  and  yet  had  never  had  one  glimpse 
of  each  other's  form  or  feature  ;  who  were,  each 
to  each,  but  a  name  on  a  door,  a  step  overhead,  a 


LONDON.  319 

tread  on  the  stair,  a  moan  of  anguish,  a  laugh, 
or  a  curse.  Tliere  were  parallel  streets,  too, 
whose  tenants  moved  parallel  and  never  met,  and 
never  would  meet.  There  were  neighborhoods 
farther  distant  than  Oornhill  is  from  Cairo,  or 
Pimlico  from  Patagonia.  It  was  a  dark  den  — 
that  monster  city  —  for  any  one  who  loved  to 
lurk,  or  be  buried  away  from  sight  of  friend  or 
foe ;  it  was  a  maze,  a  clewless  labyrinth  for  one 
who  sought  a  foe  to  punish  or  a  friend  to  save. 

Evening  was  approaching.  I  must  consider 
Short  and  his  Cut-off,  and  all  England  wasting 
steam  at  the  rate  of  millions  of  pounds  a  year 
(enough  to  save  the  income  tax)  until  that 
Cut-off  should  be  applied.  In  that  populous 
realm  were  ten  thousand  cylinders  devouring 
one  third  more  steam  than  was  healthy  working 
allowance  ;  and  I  was  halting  on  London  Bridge, 
staring  like  a  New-Zealander  at  the  passers,  a 
mere  obstacle  to  progress,  a  bad  example,  a  star 
tionary  nuisance  now,  as  I  had  been  a  mobile 
and  intrusive  one  before. 

I  had  some  little  difficulty  in  finding  Padiham's 
retiring-place.  I  had  already  dissected  it  out  on 
the  map,  identified  it  by  its  neighborhood  to  a 
certain  artery  and  its  closer  neighborhood  to  a 
certain  ganglion.  It  was  Lamely  Court,  a  quiet 
retreat  in  a  busy  region.  It  looked,  indeed,  as  if 
it  had  never  taken  a  very  active  part  in  the 
world,  or  as  if,  when  it  offered  itself  to  bustle 


320  JOHN   BRENT. 

and  traffic,  more  enterprising  localities  had  hus- 
tled it  aside,  and  bade  it  decline  into  a  lethargy. 
The  withered  brick  houses  had  the  air  and  visage 
of  people  who  have  seen  better  days,  and  sub- 
sided into  the  desponding  by-ways,  apart  from 
the  thoroughfares  of  the  bold  and  sturdy.  Mean 
misery  and  squalor  did  not  abide  there.  It  was 
not  a  den  for  the  ragged,  but  a  shy  retreat  for 
the  patched,  —  for  the  decent  and  decorous  poor. 

Half-way  down  the  court,  on  the  sunny  side, 
I  found  Padiham's  house.  It  was  quietly,  not 
obtrusively,  neater  and  fresher  than  its  neigh- 
bors. Its  bricks  had  a  less  worm-eaten  look,  and 
its  window-panes  were  all  of  glass  and  none  of 
newspaper.  The  pot  roses  in  an  upper  story 
window  were  in  bloom,  and  had  life  enougli  to 
welcome  the  June  sunshine,  while  sister  plants 
in  other  garrets  all  about  the  court  were  too  far 
blighted  ever  to  dream  of  gayer  product  than 
some  poor  jaundiced  bud.  These  roses  up  in 
Padiham's  window  cheered  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood greatly,  with  their  lively  coloring.  It  was 
as  if  some  pretty  maiden,  with  rosy  cheeks  and 
riper  rosy  lips,  were  looking  down  into  that 
forlorn  retreat,  and  warming  every  old,  faded 
soul,  within  every  shabby  tenement,  with  bright 
reminiscence  of  days  when  life  was  in  its  per- 
fume and  its  flower. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  Padiham's  abode.  His 
shop  lurked  in  the  basement. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

A  DWARF. 

It  was  with  much  curibsity  and  interest  in 
Padiham  that  I  stepped  down  into  the  basement, 
and  entered  his  shop.  I  reverence  as  much  a 
great  mechanic,  in  degree,  perhaps  in  kind,  as  I 
do  any  great  seer  into  the  mysteries  of  Nature. 
He  is  a  king,  whoever  can  wield  the  great  forces 
where  other  men  have  not  the  power.  And  none 
can  control  material  forces  without  a  profound 
knowledge,  stated  or  unstated,  of  the  great  mas- 
terly laws  that  order  every  organism,  from  dust 
to  man  and  a  man-freighted  world.  A  great 
mechanic  ranks  with  the  great  chiefs  of  his  time, 
prophets,  poets,  orators,  statesmen. 

Padiham  was  in  his  shop  at  work.  No  mis- 
taking him.  A  stunted,  iron-gray  man,  not  mis- 
shapen, but  only  shut  together,  like  a  one-barrelled 
opera-glass. 

A  very  impressive  head  was  Padiham's.  No 
harm  had  been  done  to  that  by  whatever  force 
had  driven  in  his  legs  and  shut  his  ribs  together. 
His  head  was  full  grown.     In  contrast  with  his 

14*  V 


Q 


22  JOHN   BRENT. 


body,  it  seemed  even  overgrown.  His  hair  and 
beard  were  iron-gray.  He  had  those  heavy, 
square  eyebrows  that  compel  the  eyes  from 
roving,  and  shut  them  down  upon  the  matter 
in  hand,  so  that  it  cannot  escape.  Not  a  man, 
this,  to  err  on  facts  or  characters.  A  pretender 
person,  a  sham  fact,  he  would  test  at  once  and 
dismiss.  Short's  Cut-off  had  never  met  a  sterner 
critic  than  this  man  with  the  square  forehead 
and  firm  nose. 

He  was  hard  at  work  at  a  bench,  low  according 
to  his  stature,  filing  at  some  fine  machinery. 
The  shop  was  filled  with  a  rich  sunny  duskiness. 
Here  and  there  surfaces  of  polished  brass  spar- 
kled. Sunbeams,  striking  through  the  dim  win- 
dows, glinted  upon  bits  of  bright  steel  strewn 
about.  I  perceived  the  clear  pungent  odor  of 
fresh  steel  filings,  very  grateful  after  the  musty 
streets,  seething  in  June  sunshine  and  the  ex- 
halations of  the  noisome  Thames.  It  was  a 
scene  of  orderly  disorder,  ruled  by  the  master- 
workman  there. 

Padiham  had,  of  course,  observed  my  entrance. 
He  took  no  notice  of  me,  and  continued  his 
work. 

I  held  my  station  near  the  door.  I  did  not 
wish  to  spoil  his  job  by  the  jar  of  an  interrup- 
tion. Besides,  I  thought  it  as  well  to  let  him 
speak  first.  I  was  prepared  for  an  odd  man; 
he  might  make  the  advances,  if  he  pleased. 


A  DWARF.  323 

Padiliain  went  ou  filing,  in  a  grim,  intelligent 
way.     I  glanced  about  the  shop. 

There  were  models  all  about  of  machines, 
some  known,  some  strange  to  me ;  disconnected 
portions  of  inventions  lying  side  by  side,  and 
wanting  only  a  bolt  or  a  screw  to  be  organized 
and  ready  to  rush  at  pumping,  or  lifting,  or 
dragging,  or  busy  duty  of  some  useful  kind. 
There  was  store,  too,  of  interesting  rubbish,  — 
members  of  futile  models,  that  could  not  do  busy 
duty  of  their  kind  for  some  slight  error,  and 
worth  careful  study  as  warnings ;  for  failure  with 
mechanics  is  the  schoolmaster  of  success.  Draw- 
ings of  engines  hung  all  about  the  walls.  As 
guardian  genius  of  the  spot,  there  was  a  portrait 
of  that  wise,  benignant  face  of  my  friend  of  this 
morning,  that  great  engineer  who  had  directed 
me  hither. 

Apart  in  a  dusky  corner,  by  the  chimney  and 
forge,  hung  two  water-color  drawings  in  neat 
gilt  frames.  They  were  perhaps  a  little  incon- 
gruous with  the  scenery  of  the  gnome's  cavern. 
I  did  not,  of  course,  expect  to  find  here  a  portrait 
of  a  truculent  bruiser  or  a  leering  bar-maid. 
Beery  journeymen  keep  such  low  art  hanging 
before  them  to  seduce  them  from  any  ambition 
to  become  master  hands  and  beguile  them  back 
of  beer.  Padiham  would  of  course  need  draw- 
ings of  models  and  machines,  and  enjoy  them; 


324  JOHN  BRENT. 

but  I  did  not  look  for  Art  proper  in  his  shop. 
There,  however,  in  the  dim  background,  hung 
the  two  cheerful  drawings,  in  their  neat  frames. 
They  renewed  and  repeated  the  feeling  which  the 
gay  roses  in  the  upper  windows  had  given  me. 
My  fancy  supplied  a  link  between  the  drawings 
and  the  flowers.  They  infused  a  pleasant  ele- 
ment of  refinement  into  the  work-a-day  atmo- 
sphere of  the  shop. 

One  of  these  drawings  —  I  could  just  faintly 
distinguish  their  subject,  and  not  the  skiU,  greater 
or  less,  of  their  handling  —  was  a  view  of  an  old 
brick  many-gabled  manor-house  on  a  lawn  dotted 
with  stately  oaks.  Its  companion  —  and  the  light 
hardly  permitted  me  to  decipher  it  —  seemed  to 
be  a  group  of  people  seated  on  the  grass,  and  a 
horse  bending  over  them.  I  glanced  at  these 
objects  as  my  eye  made  the  tour  of  the  shop ; 
but  my  head  was  filled  with  Short's  Cut-off  and 
this  grim  dwarf  before  me. 

Presently  Padiham  laid  down  his  file,  and  took 
up  a  pair  of  pincers  from  the  confusion  on  his 
bench.  He  gave  a  bit  of  wire  a  twist,  and,  as 
he  did  so,  looked  at  me.  The  square  eyebrows 
seemed  to  hold  me  stiff,  while  he  inspected.  He 
studied  my  face,  and  then  measured  me  from  top 
to  toe.  There  was  a  slight  expression  of  repel- 
lence  in  his  features,  as  if  he  thought,  "  This  big 
fellow  probably  fancies  that  his  long  legs  make 
him  my  master  ;  we  '11  try  a  match." 


A  DWARF.  325 

He  addressed  me  in  a  sweet,  hearty  voice,  quite 
in  discord  with  his  gruff  manner.  No  man  could 
be  a  bear  and  roar  so  gently.  I  perceived  the 
Lancashire  accent.  The  dialect,  if  it  had  ever 
been  there,  was  worn  away.  Tones  are  older  in 
a  man  than  words.  He  can  learn  a  new  tongue  ; 
his  organ  he  hardly  alters.  If  Nature  has  or- 
damed  a  voice  to  howl,  or  snarl,  or  yelp,  or  bray, 
it  will  do  so  now  and  then,  stuff  our  mouths 
with  pebbles  as  we  may. 

Padiham's  frank,  amiable  voice  neutralized  his 
surly  manner,  as  he  said :  "  Now  then,  young 
man,  what  are  you  staring  at?  Do  you  want 
anything  with  me  ?  Say  so,  if  you  do.  If  not, 
don't  stand  idling  here  ;  but  go  about  your  busi- 
ness." 

"  I  want  you  to  do  a  job  for  me." 
"  Suppose  I  say,  I  don't  want  to  do  it  ?  " 
"  Then  I  '11  try  to  find  a  better  man." 
"  Umph !  where  '11  you  look  for  him  ?  " 
"  In   the   first   shop  where   there 's   one   that 
knows  enough  to  give  good  words  to  a  stranger." 
"Well;  say  what  your  job  is." 
"  You  're  ready  to  do  it  then  ? 
"  I  'm  not  ready  to  waste  any  more  time  in 
talk." 

"  Nor  I.     I  want  some  working  models  of  a 
new  patent  Cut-off." 

"  I  wont  undertake  any  tom-foolery." 


326  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  If  you  can  make  tom-foolery  out  of  this, 
you  're  a  cleverer  nian  than  I  am." 

"  That  may  not  be  much  to  say.  I  've  had 
so  many  shams  brought  to  me  in  the  way  of  cut- 
offs that  I  shall  not  spend  time  on  yours  unless 
it  looks  right  at  first  glance. 

"  You  '11  see  with  half  an  eye  that  this  means 
something." 

"  Show  me  your  drawings ;  that  will  settle 
it." 

I  produced  the  working  drawings. 

Padiham  studied  them  a  few  moments.  1 
volunteered  no  explanation. 

Presently  he  looked  up,  and  fixed  me  with  his 
square  eyebrows,  while  he  examined  me  from 
head  to  foot  again. 

"  Did  you  mvent  this  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No." 

"  Umph  !  Thought  not.  Too  tall.  Who 
did  ? " 

"Mr.  Short." 

"  Don't  Mister  the  man  that  thought  out  this. 
His  whole  name  I  want,  without  handles.  He 
don't  need  'em." 

"George  Short." 

"George,  —  that's  my  name  too.  I  suppose 
he  is  a  Yankee.  I  know  every  man  in  England 
likely  to  have  contrived  this ;  but  none  of  them 
have  quite  head  enough." 


A    DWAEF.  327 

"  He  i,:i  an  American." 

"Is  be  a  Mormon?" 

"No." 

"  Are  you  ?  " 

"  No.     It  is  an  odd  question." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  your  country,  ex- 
cept that  you  invent  macbines,  keep  slaves,  blow 
up  steamboats,  and  beguile  off  Englishmen  with 
your  damned  Mormonism.  The  Mormons  have 
done  so  much  harm  in  my  country, — Lancashire 
that  is,  —  that  I  've  sworn  I  'd  never  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  any  Yankee,  unless  I  first  knew 
he  was  not  one  of  those  wolves.  But  if  you're 
not,  and  George  Short  is  not,  I  '11  do  your  job. 
Now  tell  me  precisely  what  you  want  made,  for 
1  can't  spend  time  with  you." 

"  I  want  six  sets  of  these  models  at  once." 

"  I  '11  order  the  castings  this  evening.  I  have 
materials  here  for  the  fine  parts.  Can  you  han- 
dle tools  ?  —  I  mean  useful  tools,  —  files  and  saws 
and  wrenches,  not  pens  and  sand-boxes." 

"  I  'm  a  fair  workman  with  your  tools." 

"  You  can  help  me  then.  Come  over  to-mor- 
row morning  at  seven.  No  ;  you  're  an  idler, 
and  I  '11  give  you  till  eight.  If  you  're  not  here 
by  that  time  you  '11  find  me  busy  for  the  day." 

So  saying,  Padiham  turned  off  to  his  work. 
He  gave  me  no  further  attention  ;  but  filed  away 
grimly.     I  watched  him  a  moment.     "What  in- 


328  JOHN  BRENT. 

tensity  and  earnestness  were  in  this  man  !  Like 
other  great  artists,  who  see  form  hidden  within 
a  mass  of  brute  matter,  he  seemed  to  be  nrged 
to  give  himself,  body  and  soul,  to  releasing  the 
form  from  its  cell,  to  setting  free  the  elemen- 
tal spirit  of  order  and  action  locked  up  in  the 
stuff  before  him. 

His  brief  verdict  upon  my  friend's  invention 
settled  its  success  in  my  mind.  Not  that  I 
doubted  before ;  but  the  man's  manner  was  con- 
clusive. He  pronounced  the  fiat  of  the  practical 
world,  as  finally  as  the  great  engineer  had  done 
of  the  theoretical.  I  thrilled  for  old  Short,  when 
this  Dwarf,  lurking  away  in  a  by-court  of  Lon- 
don, accepted  him  as  his  peer.  The  excitement 
of  this  interview  had  for  a  time  quite  expelled 
my  anxieties.  For  a  time  I  had  lost  sight  of 
the  two  figures  that  haunted  me,  and  ever  vanished 
as  I  pursued.  They  took  their  places  again  as 
I  left  the  shop  and  issued  from  Lamely  Court 
into  the  crowded  thoroughfare  at  hand. 

I  took  a  cab,  and  drove  to  my  hotel,  and  so  to 
Biddulph's.  The  dinner  at  the  Baronet's  shall 
not  figure  in  these  pages.  It  was  my  first  ap- 
pearance as  hero.  I  and  my  horse  were  historic 
characters  in  this  new  circle.  I  was  lionized  by 
Lady  Biddulph,  a  stately  personage,  inheritress 
of  a  family  rustle,  —  a  rustle  as  old  as  the  Plan- 
tagenets,  and  grander  now  by  the  accumulations 


A   DWARF.  329 

of  ages.  A  lovely  young  lady,  with  dark  hair, 
who  blushed  when  I  took  my  cue  and  praised 
Biddulph,  she  also  lionized  me.  A  thorough- 
bred American  finds  English  life  charming,  es- 
pecially if  he  is  agreeably  lionne ;  a  scrubby 
American  considers  England  a  region  of  cold 
shoulder,  too  effete  to  appreciate  impertinence. 

Lady  Biddulph  gave  me  further  facts  of  the 
history  of  the  Clitheroes. 

"  Our  dear  Ellen  !  "  she  concluded.  "  If  she 
had  known  how  much  I  loved  her,  she  would 
have  disregarded  her  natural  scruples,"  —  and 
she  glanced  at  her  son,  —  "and  let  me  befriend 
and  protect  her.  It  goes  to  my  heart  to  see  Mr, 
Brent  so  worn  and  sad.  He,  too,  has  become 
very  dear  to  us  all.  I  have  adopted  him  as  my 
son  as  long  as  he  pleases,  and  try  to  give  him  a 
mother's  sympathy." 

Brent  walked  back  with  me  to  Smorley's. 

"  How  different  we  are ! "  he  said,  as  we 
parted.  "  I  am  all  impulse ;  you  are  all  steadi- 
ness." 

"  Suffering  might  throw  me  off  my  balance. 
Remember  that  I  have  had  trial  and  experience, 
but  no  torture." 

"  Torture,  that  is  the  word  ;  and  it  has  un- 
manned me  like  a  wearing  disease.  Your  com- 
ing makes  a  man  of  me  again." 

"  Give  me  a  day  or  two  for  Short's  Cut-off  and 


330  JOHN   BRENT 

the  mechanical  nineteenth  century,  and  we  will 
take  our  knight-errantry  upon  us  again.  We 
are  dismounted  cavaliers  now,  to  be  sure,  —  no 
Pumps  or  Fulano  to  help  us,  —  but  we  shall  find, 
I  will  not  doubt,  some  other  trusty  aid  against 
the  demon  forces." 

Brent  bade  me  good  night  with  a  revival  of  his 
old  self.     We  were  to  meet  again  to-morrow. 

I  sat  down  to  gladden  Short  with  the  story  of 
my  success  to-day,  and  wrote  hard  and  fast  to 
catch  to-morrow's  steamer. 

The  dwarf,  I  knew,  would  be  a  man  after 
Short's  own  heart,  —  these  men  of  iron  and  steel 
are  full  of  magnetism  for  each  other.  I  gave 
Short  a  minute  description  of  Padiham's  shop. 

As  I  described,  I  found  that  my  observation 
had  been  much  keener  than  I  supposed.  Every 
object  in  the  shop  came  back  to  me  distinctly.  I 
saw  the  Rembrandt  interior,  barred  with  warm 
sunbeams ;  the  grim  master  standing  there  over 
his  vice  ;  the  glinting  steel ;  the  polished  brass ; 
the  intelligent  tools,  ready  to  spring  up  and  do 
their  duty  in  the  craftsman's  hands ;  that  little 
pretty  plaything  of  a  steam-engine,  at  rest,  but 
with  its  pocket-piece  of  an  oscillating  cylinder 
hanging  alert,  so  that  it  could  swing  off  merrily 
at  a  moment's  notice,  and  its  piston  with  a  firm 
grip  on  the  crank,  equally  eager  to  skip  up  and 
down  in  the  cylinder  on  its  elastic  cushion  of 
steam. 


A   DWAEF.  331 

All  the  objects  in  Padiliam's  shop,  oue  after 
another,  caught  my  look,  as  I  reviewed  the  whole 
in  memory.  Suddenly  I  found  myself  gazing 
intently  at  my  image  of  those  two  water-color 
drawings  in  neat  gilt  frames,  hanging  in  a  dusky 
corner  by  the  chimney,  —  those  two  drawings 
which  had  revived  in  my  mind  the  sentiment  of 
the  bright,  healthy  roses  in  the  upper  windows. 

Suddenly  these  drawings  recurred  to  me.  They 
stared  at  me  like  an  old  friend  neglected.  They 
insisted  upon  my  recognition.  There  was  a  per- 
sonality in  them  which  gazed  at  me  with  a  shy 
and  sad  reproach,  that  I  had  given  them  only  a 
careless  glance,  and  so  passed  them  by. 

The  drawings  stared  at  me  and  I  at  them. 

An  ancient,  many-gabled  brick  manor-house, 
on  a  fair  lawn  dotted  with  stately  oaks,  —  that 
was  the  first. 

Had  I  not  already  seen  a  drawing,  the  fellow 
of  this?  Yes.  In  Biddulph's  hands  at  Fort 
Laramie.  The  same  gables,  the  same  sweet  slope 
of  lawn,  the  same  broad  oaks,  and  one  the  mon- 
arch of  them  all,  —  perhaps  the  very  one  Words- 
worth had  rounded  into  a  sonnet. 

And  the  companion  drawing  that  I  hardly 
deciphered  in  the  dimness, — that  group  of  figures 
and  a  horse  bending  over  them  ? 

How  blind  I  was  ! 

Fulano ! 


332  JOHN   BRENT. 

Fulaiio  surely.     He  and  no  other. 

And  that  group  ? 

Ourselves  at  the  Luggernel  Springs.  Brent 
lying  wounded,  while  I  gave  him  water,  and  a, 
lady  bound  up  his  wounds. 

Can  this  be  so  ?  Am  I  not  the  victim  of  a 
fancy  ?  Is  this  indeed  my  noble  horse  ?  Is 
he  again  coming  forward  to  bear  us  along  the 
trail  of  our  lost  friend. 

I  stared  again  at  my  mental  image  of  the  two 
drawings.  I  recalled  again  every  word  of  my  in- 
terview with  Padiham. 

The  more  I  looked,  the  more  confident  I  be- 
came. Short's  Cut-off  had  held  such  entire  pos- 
session of  me  in  the  afternoon,  that  I  could  only 
observe  with  eyes,  not  with  volition,  could  not 
vakie  the  treasure  I  was  grasping  ignorantly. 
But  I  had  grasped  it.  This  is  Fulano  !  Except 
for  him,  I  might  doubt.  Except  for  his  presence, 
the  other  drawing  of  an  old  brick  manor-house 
would  be  a  commonplace  circumstance. 

"  Now  let  me  see,"  I  thought,  pushing  aside 
my  letter  to  Short  for  a  moment,  "  what  are  my 
facts  ? 

"  Mr.  Clitheroe  and  his  daughter  have  disap- 
peared, and  are  probably  in  London. 

"  I  have  found  —  God  be  thanked  !  —  a  clew, 
perhaps  a  clew.     Work  by  the  lady's  hand. 

"  And  where  ?     In  Padiham's  shop. 


A   DWAEF.  333 

"  Padiham  is  a  Lancashire  man.  So  is  Mr. 
Clitheroe. 

"  Padiham  has  a  horror  of  Mormons.  Why 
was  I  so  hurried  as  not  to  pursue  tlie  conversa- 
tion, and  discover  what  special  cause  he  had  for 
his  disgust  ? 

"  Padiham,  in  a  secluded  p^rt  of  London, 
keeps  a  hospital  for  the  poor  and  the  sick. 

"  There  are  bright  roses  in  the  upper  windows. 
No  masculine  lingers  know  how  to  lure  blossoms 
into  being  so  tenderly. 

"  Bright  roses  in  the  rooms  above  ;  able  draw- 
ings giving  refinement  to  the  rusty  shop  below. 

"  Can  it  be  that  they  are  there,  under  the  very 
roof  of  that  grim  good  Samaritan  ? 

"  In  the  three  millions  have  I  come  upon  my 
two  units  ? 

"  Going  straight  forward  and  minding  my  own 
business,  have  I  effected  in  one  day  what  Brent 
has  failed  in  utterly  after  a  search  of  months  ? 

"  But  let  me  not  neglect  the  counter  facts  ? 

"  I  did  not  recognize  these  pictures  when  I  saw 
them.  Perhaps  what  I  find  in  them  now  is  fan- 
cy. My  own  vivid  remembrance  of  the  scene  at 
Luggernel  may  be  doing  artist-work,  and  dignify- 
ing some  commonplace  illustration  of  an  old  bal- 
lad. Ours  was  not  the  first  such  group  since 
men  were  made  and  horses  made  for  them.  Fu 
lano  has  had  no  lack  of  forefathers  in  heroism. 


834  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  And  the  manor-house  ?  There  are,  perhaps, 
in  Padiham's  own  county,  a  hundred  such  an- 
cient many-gabled  brick  halls,  a  hundred  lawns 
fair  as  the  one  that  falls  away  gently  from  Mr. 
Clitheroe's  ancestral  mansion,  scores  of  oaks  as 
stately  as  the  one  that  was  lucky  enough  to 
shadow  Wordsworth,  and  so  cool  his  head  for 
a  sonnet  in  grateful  recompense. 

"  Padiham  may  have  a  daughter  who  draws 
horses  and  houses  to  delude  me,  —  imaginative 
fellow  that  I  am  becoming ! 

"  Or,  what  do  I  know  ?  Suppose  these  fugi- 
tives have  taken  refuge  with  Padiham,  —  it  may 
be  to  escape  pursuit.  Poor  Mr.  Clitheroe !  Who 
knows  what  poverty  may  have  permitted  him  to 
do  ?  Better  to  hide  in  Lamely  Court  than  to  be 
stared  at  in  a  prison  ! 

"  My  facts  are  slender  basis  for  conclusion,"  — 
so  I  avowed  to  myself  on  this  review. 

"  But  I  would  rather  have  a  hope  than  no 
hope.     The  filmiest  clew  is  kinder  than  no  clew. 

"  I  will  finish  my  letter  to  old  Short,  dear  boy, 
inventor  of  a  well-omened  Cut-off";  I  will  sleep 
like  a  top,  with  no  mysterious  disappearances  to 
disturb  me  ;  I  will  be  with  the  Dwarf  by  seven. 
If  that  is  Fulano  in  the  drawing-,  he  shall  carry 
double  again.  He  shall  conduct  the  Lovej;'  and 
Friend  to  the  Lady." 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

PADIHAM'S  SHOP. 

How  jubilant  I  felt  the  next  morning  as  I 
made  my  way  toward  Lamely  Court !  The 
Thames  really  seemed  to  me  a  pure  and  lucent 
current.  I  began  to  fancy  that  there  might  be 
a  stray  whiff  of  ozone  in  the  breezes  of  Albion. 

Wliat  a  cheerful  clock  it  was,  in  some  steeple 
near  at  hand,  that  struck  seven  as  I  set  foot 
upon  Padiham's  steps !  What  a  blessing  to  a 
neighborhood  to  have  a  clock  so  utterly  incredu- 
lous of  dolefulness,  —  a  clock  that  said  All 's  well 
to  the  past  hour,  and  prophesied  All 's  well  to  the 
coming  ! 

"  Now,"  I  thought,  "  I  must  have  my  wits 
about  me.  My  business  is  with  Padiham  the 
mechanic,  not  with  Padiham  the  good  Samari- 
tan, My  time  and  mind  belong  to  Short's 
Cut-ofiF.  I  must  not  dash  off  into  impertinent 
queries  about  people  the  dwarf  may  know  noth- 
ing of,  may  wish  to  tell  nothing  of.  Keep  cool, 
Richard  Wade  !  mind  your  own  business,  and 
then  you  can  mind  other  people's.     Be  ready  to 


6  JOHN   BRENT. 


be  disappointed  !  Destiny  is  not  so  easy  to  propi- 
tiate as  you  seemed  to  believe  last  niglit. 

As  the  clock  dallied  on  its  last  stroke  of  seven, 
I  entered  Padiham's  shop. 

My  first  glance  —  eyes  never  looked  more 
earnestly  —  was  toward  the  two  drawings. 

There  they  were,  —  fact  not  fancy. 

I  could  still  hold  to  the  joy  of  a  hope.   - 

They  were  too  far  away  in  this  dusky  corner 
for  absolute  recognition  ;  but  there  were  the 
familiar  gables  of  the  old  hall ;  and  there  was 
my  horse,  yes,  himself,  bending  over  that  very 
group  of  Luggernel  Sprmgs.  I  must  cling  to 
my  confidence ;  I  would  not  doubt.  If  I  doubted, 
I  should  become  a  stupid  bungler  over  the  mod- 
els, and  probably  disgust  Padiham  by  my  awk- 
wardness. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Padiham." 

"  Good  morning,"  said  he,  in  that  hearty  voice 
which  resolutely  declined  bemg  surly. 

He  was  standing,  filing  away,  just  where  I  had 
left  him  yesterday.  Put  him  on  a  pair  of  prop- 
erly elongated  legs,  shake  the  reefs  out  of  his 
ribs,  in  short,  let  Procrustes  have  half  an  hour 
at  him,  and  a  very  distinguished-looking  man 
would  be  George  Padiham.  In  fact,  as  he  was, 
his  remarkable  head  raised  him  above  pity.  Many 
of  us  would  consent  to  be  dwarfed,  to  be  half 
man  below   the   Adam's  apple,  if  above   it  we 


PADIHAM'S   SHOP.  337 

could  wear  the  head  of  a  Jupiter  Tonans,  such  a 
majestic  head  as  this  stunted  man,  the  chief 
artisan  of  all  England. 

Padiham  was  as  gruff  as  yesterday,  but  his 
gruffness  gave  him  flavor.  Better  a  boor  than 
a  flunkey.  There  is  excitement  m  talking  with 
a  man  who  respects  you  exactly  in  proportion 
to  your  power,  and  ignores  you  if  you  are  a 
muff. 

We  went  at  our  work  without  delay.  For 
nearly  two  hours  I  put  myself  and  kept  myself 
at  Short's  Cut-off.  Padiham's  skill  and  readiness 
astonished  me.  Great  artists  are  labor-saving 
machines  to  themselves ;  they  leap  to  a  conclu- 
sion in  a  moment,  where  a  potterer  would  be 
becalmed  for  a  tide. 

By  and  by,  I  found  that  I  could  be  of  no  fur- 
ther use  to  this  master  craftsman. 

"  You  understand  this  job  better  than  I  do," 
said  I. 

"  I  understand  it,"  said  he. 

"  I  '11  take  a  short  spell,"  said  I,  "  and  look 
about  the  shop  a  httle." 

"  Don't  be  setting  my  tools  by  the  ears." 

"  No  ;  I  want  to  see  those  pictures  by  the 
chimney." 

He  said  nothing.    His  lathe  buzzed.    His  chisel 
tortured  bars  of  metal  until  they  slirieked.     The 
fragrance  of  fresh-cut  steel  filled  the  shop. 
15  V 


338  JOHN  BRENT. 

I  sprang  to  the  dusky  corner.  My  heart  choked 
me.  I  wanted  to  shout  so  that  John  Brent,  miles 
away  across  the  wilderness  of  the  great  city, 
could  hear  and  come  with  one  step. 

For  here  was  what  I  hoped. 

Here  we  were,  our  very  selves,  in  this  bold, 
masterly  drawing.  John  Brent  himself,  the 
wounded  knight ;  myself,  bringing  him  water 
from  the  fountain ;  our  dear  Ellen,  kneeling 
beside  ;  and  bending  over  us,  Don  Fulano,  the 
chiefest  hero  of  that  terrible  ride  through  the 
canon. 

And  more,  if  I  needed  proof.  For  here,  in 
among  the  water-plants  by  the  spring,  there  in 
the  grass  under  Wordsworth's  oak,  lurked  the 
initials,  E.  C. 

Found  !  Ah,  not  yet.  A  clew ;  but  perhaps 
a  clew  that  would  break  in  my  hands,  as  I 
traced  it. 

I  lost  no  time. 

"  These  are  pretty  pictures,"  said  I,  crushing 
myself  into  self-possession. 

"  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  this  job  ?  " 

"  You  think  I  'm  a  pretty  good  mechanic  ?  " 

"  Middling.  You  handle  tools  well  enough  for 
a  gentleman." 

"  Well,  if  I  were  not  a  bit  of  an  artist,  I  should 
not  even  be  a  middling  mechanic.  I  like  to  see 
fine  art,  such  as  these  drawings,  hung  up  before 


PADIHAM'S   SHOP.  339 

a  working  man.  I  can  understand  how  appre- 
ciating such  things  has  helped  you  to  become  the 
first  mechanic  in  England." 

"  Who  says  I  am  that  ?  " 

"  So  the  first  engineer  in  England  told  me 
when  he  sent  me  here." 

"  0,  he  sent  you !  I  supposed  you  did  not 
find  your  own  way." 

"There  has  been  no  chance  in  my  coming 
here,"  said  I,  and  my  heart  thanked  God. 

"You're  right  about  those  drawings,  young 
man,"  Padiham  said,  and  his  voice  seemed  to 
find  a  sweeter  tone  even  than  before.  "They 
do  me  good,  and  put  a  finer  edge  on  my  work. 
They  're  good  work,  and  by  a  good  hand." 

"  Whose  ? " 

The  dwarf  turned  about  and  surveyed  me 
strictly.  Then  he  started  his  lathe  again,  tore 
off  a  narrow  ringlet  of  steel  from  a  bit  he  was 
shaping,  and  flung  another  stream  of  steely  per- 
fume into  the  air. 

"  Whose  hand  ?  "  I  asked  again. 

"Do  you  ask  because  you  want  to  know,  or 
only  to  make  idle  talk  ? " 

"  I  want  to  know." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  I  think  the  drawings  are  good.  I  should 
like  a  pair  by  the  same  hand.  Can  you.  direct 
me  to  the  artist? " 


840  JOHN  BRENT. 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  The  artist  don't  like  strangers.  I  will  order 
you  what  you  want." 

"  That  will  not  do.  I  prefer  to  talk  over  the 
subjects  with  the  painter." 

The  dwarf  turned  again  and  gave  me  a  prob- 
ing look,  and  again  took  up  his  chisel  and  cut 
shining  curls  without  reply. 

I  grew  impatient  of  this  parley.  He  knew 
something,  and  it  must  out. 

"  Look  at  me,  George  Padiham ! "  I  said. 
"  Stop  your  lathe  a  minute,  and  charge  me  for 
the  time  a  hundred  times  over !  I  know  the 
hand  that  painted  these  pictures.  My  portrait 
and  my  friend's,  and  my  horse's  portrait,  are 
here  on  your  wall.  Only  one  person  in  the 
world  can  have  painted  them,  Ellen  Clitheroe. 
Here  are  her  initials  in  the  corner.  You  know 
where  she  is.  I  wish  to  see  her.  I  must  see 
her,  at  once,  now !  " 

"  Keep  cool,  young  man !  This  is  my  shop. 
I  'm  master  here.  I  've  put  bigger  men  than 
you  out  of  this  door  before.  What's  all  this 
must  and  shall  about  ?     What 's  your  name  ?  " 

"Richard  Wade." 

Padiham  left  his  lathe,  came  toward  me,  sur- 
veyed me  earnestly  again,  and  then  took  down 
the  drawing  wherein  I  appeared.     He  compared 


PADIHAM'S    SHOP.  841 

the  man  standing  before  him  with  his  counter- 
feit presentment.  There  could  be  no  mistaking 
me.  I  had  the  honor  to  resemble  myself,  as  the 
artist  had  remembered  me. 

"  You  're  the  man,"  said  Padiham.  "  I  've 
heard  of  you.  I  wasn't  looking  sharp  not  to 
have  known  you  when  you  first  came  in  and 
stood  there  by  the  door  waiting  for  me  to  speak 
first.  Richard  Wade,  give  me  your  hand!  I 
suppose  if  I  am  the  best  mechanic  in  England, 
called  so  on  good  authority,  you  wont  mind 
striking  palms  with  me." 

I  shook  him  by  the  hand  pretty  vigorously. 

"  You  've  got  a  middhng  strong  grip  of  your 
fist  for  one  of  the  overgrown  sort,"  said  he. 
*'  Where  's  your  friend,  John  Brent  ?  " 

"Here  in  London,  searching  for  Miss  Cli- 
theroe  ! " 

"  Where  's  your  horse  ?  —  the  Black  ? " 

"  Dead  !  Shot  and  drowned  in  the  Missouri, 
helping  oflf  a  fugitive  slave." 

"That's  brave.  Well,  Richard  Wade,  my 
dear  child  Ellen  Clitheroe  and  her  father  are 
here  in  my  house.  They  are  safe  here,  after  all 
their  troubles,  up  in  that  room  where  perhaps 
you  marked  the  roses  in  the  window.  She  has 
been  sick  at  heart  to  have  heard  nothmg  from 
you  since  she  came  to  England.  It  will  be  the 
one  thing  she  lacks  to  see  you,  and  if  you  will 


842  JOHN   BRENT. 

let  me  say  a  few  words  to  you  first,  I'll  tako 
you  to  them." 

"  Go  on.  K  you  have  protected  my  friends, 
you  are  my  friend,  and  I  want  to  hear  what  you 
have  to  say." 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

"CAST  THY  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS." 

"  I  AM  short,  and  I  shall  try  to  make  a  long 
story  short,"  said  Padiham.  "  I  wish  to  tell  you, 
iu  as  few  words  as  I  may,  why  Mr.  Clitheroe  and 
his  daughter  are  in  my  house. 

"  Look  at  me,  a  stunted  man  !  Life  in  a  coal- 
mine stunted  me.  I  suppose  I  was  born  under- 
ground. I  know  that  I  never  remember  when  I 
was  not  at  work,  either  harnessed  like  a  dog,  and 
dragging  coals  through  a  shop  where  I  could  not 
stand  upright,  or,  when  I  grew  stronger,  —  bigger 
I  was  not  to  grow,  —  down  in  the  darkest  holes, 
beating  out  with  a  pickaxe  stuff  to  make  other 
men's  houses  warm  and  cheery.  If  I  had  had 
air  and  sun  and  light  and  hope,  I  might  have 
been  a  shapely  man. 

"  It  was  m  Lancashire,  the  coal-mine  where 
I  had  been  shut  up,  boy  and  man,  some  twenty 
years,  as  I  reckon.  There  came  one  day  a 
weakly  man,  who  had  n't  been  used  to  work 
hard,  into  the  shaft,  and  they  put  him  at  drawing 
out  the  coals  I  dug      Hugh  was  the  name  ho 


344  JOHN  BRENT. 

gave,  and  he  had  n't  been  long  enough  under- 
ground to  get  his  face  black,  before  we  'd  baptized 
him  Gentleman  Hugh.  I  had  never  seen  a  gen- 
tleman to  know  him,  but  I  had  a  feeling  of  what 
one  ought  to  be,  and  so  had  my  mates  in  the  pit 
Gentleman  Hugh  seemed  to  us  to  suit  the  nick- 
name we  gave  him.  We  're  roughs  down  in  the 
coal-pits,  and  some  of  us  are  brutes  enough ;  but 
Gentleman  Hugh  managed  to  get  us  all  on  his 
side,  and  there  was  n't  a  man  of  us  that  would  n't 
give  him  a  lift. 

"  Gentleman  Hugh  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  so 
did  I  to  him.  Nature  had  misused  me,  and  life 
had  misused  him.  We  had  something  to  pity 
each  other  for.  But  I  liad  the  advantage  in  the 
dark  damp  hole  where  we  worked.  I  had  lost 
nothing ;  I  knew  of  nothing  better ;  I  was  healthy 
and  strong,  if  I  was  stunted  ;  I  could  help  Gen- 
tleman Hugh,  and  save  him  wearing  himself  out. 
And  so  I  did.  He  was  the  first  person  or  crea- 
ture I  had  ever  cared  for. 

"  I  did  what  I  could  for  him  in  lightening  his 
work ;  but  he  gave  me  back  a  hundred  times 
what  I  could  give.  I  was  hands  without  head, 
or  without  any  head  that  could  make  my  hands 
of  use.  He  had  head  enough,  and  things  in  his 
head,  but  his  hands  were  never  meant  for  tools  to 
get  a  living.  Gentleman  Hugh  waked  up  my 
brains.     I  knew  how  to  pick  and  dig,  and  some- 


"CAST   THY   BREAD    UPON   THE   WATERS."     345 

times  wondered  if  that  was  all  I  should  ever  be 
at.  But  air  and  daylight  seemed  as  if  they  did 
not  belong  to  me.  I  was  a  drudge,  and  never 
thought  of  anything  but  drudging,  until  Gentle- 
man Hugli  came  down  into  my  shaft  and  began 
to  tell  me  what  there  was  outside  of  coal-mines. 

"  He  told  me  about  himself;  that  he  was  Hugh 
Clitheroe,  a  gentleman,  and  how  he  had  been 
ruined  by  factories  and  coal  speculations.  It 
was  his  losing  his  fortune  in  a  coal-mine  that  set 
him  on  coming  into  ours  to  make  his  bread,  and 
poor  bread  too,  for  a  gentleman.  He  said  he 
was  sick  of  daylight.  It  was  better  to  be  a 
drudge,  so  he  said,  down  in  the  blackest  and 
wettest  hole  of. any  coal-pit  in  Lancashire,  than 
to  beg  bread  of  men  that  pretended  to  be  his 
friends  when  he  was  rich,  and  sneered  at  him  for 
his  folly  in  losing  his  wealth.  I  found  out  that 
there  were  wrongs  and  brutality  above  ground  as 
well  as  under  it. 

"  By  and  by,  when  Gentleman  Hugh  and  I  had 
got  to  be  friends,  he  took  me  one  holiday  and 
showed  me  his  daughter.  She  was  a  sweet  little 
lass.  He  had  left  her  with  the  rough  women,  the 
miners'  wives.  But  she  had  her  own  way  with 
them,  just  as  he  had  had  with  us.  They  called 
her  little  Lady  Ellen,  and  would  have  cut  up  their 
own  brats,  if  they  had  n't  been  too  tough,  if  she 
liad  wanted  such  diet.     Little  Ellen,  sweet  lass ! 

15* 


846  JOHN  BRENT. 

■was  not  afraid  of  me,  Dwarf  George  and  Runt 
George  as  they  called  me.  She  did  not  run 
away  and  cry,  or  point  and  laugh  at  me  as  the 
other  children  did.  She  was  picking  daisies  on 
the  edge  of  an  old  coal-pit  when  we  first  saw 
her,  —  a  little  curly-haired  lass  of  five  years  old. 
She  was  crowned  with  daisies,  and  she  did  n't 
seem  to  me  to  belong  to  the  same  class  of  beings 
as  the  grimy  things  I  had  been  among  all  my 
days.  She  gave  me  a  daisy,  and  asked  me  if  I 
knew  who  made  it.  And  when  I  said  I  did  n't 
know,  unless  it  came  of  itself,  she  named  God  to 
me.  Nobody  had  named  God  to  me  before  ex- 
cept in  oaths. 

"  Do  I  tire  you,  sir,"  said  Padiham,  "  with  this 
talk  about  myself? " 

"  Certainly  not ;  you  interest  me  greatly." 

"  The  old  gentleman  will  hardly  be  ready  to 
see  you  yet.  It  is  almost  nine,  and  at  the  stroke 
of  nine  he  has  his  breakfast.  I  always  go  up 
then  to  give  him  good  morning.  You  can  go 
with  me." 

"  Meantime,  tell  me  how  you  found  them 
again." 

"  I  found  them  by  a  drawing  of  hers.  But  I 
will  go  on  straightforward  with  my  story. 

"  I  could  n't  stay  a  dolt,  though  I  had  to 
drudge  for  many  a  day  after  I  first  saw  -  little 
Ellen,  and  she  gave  me  the  daisy  and  named  God 


"CAST   THY   BREAD    UPON    THE   WATERS."     347 

to  me.  Whenever  I  could  get  away,  and  that 
was  only  once  a  quarter  or  a  half-year,  I  went  up 
to  see  her.  She  made  a  friend  of  me,  and  told 
me  to  take  care  of  her  father.  He  was  very 
much  down,  quite  broken  and  helpless,  with  just 
enough  strength  to  do  half  his  appointed  work. 
So  I  helped  him  with  the  rest. 

"  After  a  long  time  the  owners  found  out  that 
he  had  education,  and  they  took  him  into  the 
office.  All  the  men  were  sorry  to  lose  Gentle- 
man Hugh,  and  when  he  went,  I  lost  heart,  and 
took  to  drinking  up  my  miserable  earnings  with 
the  rest.  There  I  was,  a  drudge  in  the  dark,  and 
getting  to  be  a  drunkard,  when  Gentleman  Hugh 
came  to  me  and  told  me  how  some  one  had  left 
him  a  legacy,  and  I  must  get  out  of  the  pit  and 
share  with  him.  He  said  little  Ellen  would  not 
be  happy  unless  she  had  me. 

"  So  he  took  me  up  into  the  air  and  sun,  and 
put  me  to  school.  But  I  could  never  learn  much 
out  of  books.  Put  tools  in  my  hands  and  I  can 
make  things,  and  that  is  what  my  business  is  in 
the  world.  You  see  those  arms,  well  made  as 
your  own.  You  see  those  hands,  strong  as  a 
vice;  and  those  fingers,  fine  as  a  woman's.  They 
are  tools,  and  able  to  handle  tools.  The  rest  of 
my  body  is  stunted ;  my  brain  is  stunted.  I  'm 
uo  fool ;  but  I  'm  not  the  man  I  ought  to  be. 
Every  day  I  feel  that  I  cannot  put  my  thoughts 
into  the  highest  form." 


848  JOHN   BKENT. 

"  Every  mau  of  any  power  feels  that,"  I  said, 
"  by  whatever  machinery  his  power  finds  expres* 
sion. 

"  Perhaps  so.  Well,  when  Mr.  Clitheroe  had 
once  given  me  a  start  in  the  open  air,  and  I  had 
got  tools  in  my  hands,  pretty  soon  they  began  to 
talk  of  me  as  one  of  the  masters  in  Lancashire. 
There  's  a  great  call  in  England  for  thorough 
workmen.  I  came  up  to  London.  I  fell  in  with 
the  gentleman  who  sent  you  here,  and  I  got  on 
well.  There  's  as  much  good  work  goes  out  of 
this  little  shop  as  out  of  some  big  establishments 
with  great  names  over  the  door.  People  try  to 
get  me  to  start  a  great  shop,  and  make  a  great 
fortune,  and  have  George  Padiliam  talked  about. 
But  I  'm  Dwarf  George,  born  in  a  coal-mine  and 
stunted  in  a  coal-mine  ;  and  Lamely  Court,  with 
my  little  shop  in  the  basement,  suits  me  best. 

"  I  never  forgot  how  I  owed  all  my  good  luck 
to  Gentleman  Hugh  and  my  dear  little  Ellen.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  them,  I  should  have  died 
underground  of  hard  work,  before  thirty,  as  most 
of  my  mates  did.  Their  help  of  me  gave  me  a 
kindly  feeling  toward  broken-down  gentlefolks. 
I  owed  the  class  my  luck,  and  when  I  got  on  and 
had  money  to  spend,  having  no  one  of  my  own 
to  spend  it  for,  I  looked  up  people  as  badly  off 
as  Gentleman  Hugh  was  when  I  first  knew  him, 
and  helped  them.     They  are  a  hard  class  to  hel^ 


"CAST   THY   BREAD    UPON   THE   WATERS."      349 

—  proud  as  Lucifer  sometimes,  with  their  own 
kind.  I  took  this  house  here,  out  of  the  way  as 
much  as  any  spot  in  London.  Whenever  I  knew 
of  a  gentleman,  or  a  gentlewoman,  given  out,  or 
worn  out,  so  that  they  could  n't  take  care  of 
themselves,  I  brought  them  in  here.  If  they 
were  only  given  out,  I  put  stuff  into  them  again, 
cheered  them  up,  and  found  some  work  for  them 
to  do.  Gentlefolks  are  not  such  fools,  if  they 
only  had  education.  If  I  found  one  that  was 
worn  out  beyond  all  patching,  I  packed  him  into 
a  snug  corner  up-stairs,  and  let  him  lie  there. 
They  like  it  better  than  public  hospitals  and 
retreats. 

"  All  the  while  I  was  getting  on  and  getting 
rich  in  a  small  way,  with  some  small  shares  in 
patents  I  own.  But  I  kept  my  eye  on  Gentle- 
man Hugh.  I  knew  what  would  come  to  him, 
and  I  never  took  in  ten  shillings  that  I  did  not 
put  away  one  for  him  and  his  daughter. 

"  I  knew  of  his  going  to  America  with  the  Mor- 
mons, —  damn  'em  !  I  went  down  to  Clitheroe  to 
persuade  him  to  give  up  the  plan.  He  would 
not.  He  quarrelled  with  me,  —  our  first  hard 
words.     He  forbade  his  daughter  to  write  to  me. 

"  I  knew  he  would  come  back  some  time  or 
other,  stripped  and  needy.  I  watched  the  pack- 
et's lists  of  passengers.  He  did  not  come  under 
his  own  name  ;  but  I  saw  last  winter  an  old  Lan- 


350  JOHN   BRENT. 

cashire  name  on  a  list  of  arrivals,  —  the  name  of 
that  worn-out  shaft  where  Ellen  had  picked  the 
daisy  for  me.  It  was  a  favorite  spot  of  his. 
Part  of  his  money  had  gone  down  it,  and  he  used 
to  sit  and  stare  into  it  as  if  the  money  was  going 
to  bubble  up  again.  I  traced  them  by  that  to 
London.     Here  for  a  time  I  lost  them. 

"  He  got  very  low  in  London,  —  poor  old  man ! " 
continued  Padiham, 

"  Nothing  dishonest,  I  hope,"  said  I. 

"  No,  no.  Only  gambling,  with  a  crazy  hope  of 
getting  even  with  the  world  again.  In  this  way 
he  spent  all  that  he  had  left,  and  Ellen's  hard 
earnings  beside.  It  made  him  wild  for  her  to  re- 
fuse him ;  so  she  was  forced  to  give  him  all  that 
she  could  spare,  —  all  except  just  enough  to  pay 
for  a  poor  place  to  live  in  and  poorer  fare.  She 
never  knew  where  he  spent  the  long  nights ;  she 
only  saw  him  creep  back  to  his  garret  in  the  early 
morning  destitute  and  half  alive.  Richard  Wade, 
you  may  read  books,  and  hear  tales,  and  go 
through  the  world  looking  for  women  that  help 
and  hope,  and  never  give  up  helping  and  hoping; 
but  you  '11  never  find  another  like  her,  —  no,  not 
like  my  dear  lass,  —  as  grand  a  beauty,  too,  as 
any  at  the  Queen's  court." 

"  You  are  right,  Padiham.     None  like  her." 

"  But  I  promised  you  to  talk  as  short  as  I 
could.     I  must  tell  you  how  I  found  them.     The 


"CAST   THY   BREAD   UPON   THE   WATERS."      351 

poor  gentle-folks  that  I  take  care  of  generally 
know  something  of  ornamental  work  that  they 
learnt  to  do,  for  play,  when  they  were  better  off. 
I  set  them  at  doing  what  they  can  do  best,  and 
sell  it  for  them.  There  is  always  some  one 
among  my  family  can  draw.  What  of  their 
drawings  I  can't  dispose  of  at  the  print-shops  I 
buy  myself,  and  scatter  'em  round  among  me- 
chanics to  light  up  their  benches.  You  were 
right  when  you  said  a  man  cannot  be  a  good 
artisan  unless  he  has  a  bit  of  the  artist  in  him. 

"It  was  by  going  to  a  print-shop  with  draw- 
ings to  sell  that  I  found  my  dear  lass.  She  had 
painted  me,  and  sold  the  picture  to  the  dealer 
for  bread.  I  would  n't  have  noticed  the  picture 
except  for  the  dwarf  in  it,  and  now  I  would  n't 
be  a  finished  man  for  the  world.  Yes,  there  I 
was.  Dwarf  George,  picking  daisies  on  the  edge 
of  a  coal-pit ;  there  I  was,  just  as  I  used  to  look, 
with  the  coal-dust  ground  into  me,  trying  to 
make  friends  with  the  fresh  innocent  daisies  in 
the  sunshine. 

"  By  that  picture  I  found  them  just  in  time. 
When  I  got  to  their  garret,  Ellen  was  lying  sick, 
ill  in  body,  and  tired  and  sorrowed  out.  Their 
money  was  all  gone,  for  Gentleman  Hugh  had 
been  robbed  of  his  last  the  night  before.  I 
brought  my  dear  child  and  her  father  here.  What 
I  had  was  theirs. 


352  JOHN   BRENT. 

"  As  soon  as  her  father  was  safe  with  me,  hia 
old  friend,  she  got  well.  As  soon  as  his  daughter 
was  out  of  the  way  of  harm  and  want,  and  the 
old  gentleman  had  nothing  to  be  crazy  about  and 
nothing  to  run  away  from,  he  stopped  dead.  He 
fell  into  a  palsy. 

"  There  he  is  now  up-stairs.  Ellen  chose  the 
upper  room,  where  they  could  look  over  the 
house-tops  and  of  clear  days  see  the  Surrey  Hills. 
I  've  got  some  skill  in  my  fingers  for  mending 
broken  men,  but  Hugh  Clitheroe  can't  be  mend- 
ed. It 's  as  well  for  him  that  he  can't.  He  's 
been  off  track  too  long  ever  to  run  steady  in  this 
world.  But  he  has  come  to  himself,  and  sees 
things  clearer  at  last.  He  lies  there  contented 
and  patient,  waiting  for  his  end.  He  sees  his 
daughter,  who  has  gone  with  him  though  thick 
and  thin,  by  his  side,  and  knows  she  will  love 
him  closer  every  day.  And  he  knows  that  his 
old  mate.  Dwarf  George,  is  down  here  in  the 
basement,  strong  enough  to  keep  all  up  and  all 
together." 

"Let  me  be  the  one,  Mr.  Padiham,"  said  I, 
"  to  ask  the  honor  of  shaking  hands  with  you. 
I  think  better  of  the  world  for  your  sake." 

"  Young  man,"  said  he,  with  his  clear,  frank 
voice,  "  a  noble  woman  like  my  Ellen  betters 
every  true  man.  There  strikes  nine.  A  pleas- 
ant church-clock  that !     I  gave  it  to  'em.     Now 


*CAST   THY   BREAD    UPON   THE   WATERS."     353 

you  're  well  tired  of  my  talk,  I  dare  say.  Come, 
Ellen  will  have  all  she  has  missed  when  she  sees 
you  and  your  friend.  Many  times  she  has  told 
me  of  that  ride  of  yours.  Many  times  she  has 
cried,  as  a  woman  only  cries  for  one  loss,  when 
she  told  me  how  day  after  day  she  waited  to  hear 
from  you,  and  had  never  heard." 

"  She  wrote  ?  " 

"  Repeatedly." 

"  We  never  heard." 

"  Her  father  took  her  letters  from  her  to 
post." 

"  And  kept  them  or  destroyed  them  for  some 
crazy  suspicion." 

"  She  dreaded  you  might  have  been  chased 
and  cut  off  by  the  Mormons.  She  would  not 
believe  that  you  had  forgotten  her." 

"  Forgotten !     Come,  I  '11  follow  you." 


CHAPTER    XXXIY. 

THE  LAST   OF  A  LOVE-CHASE. 

"  How  easy  it  seems  for  noble  souls  to  be  no- 
ble !  "  thought  I,  as  I  followed  Padiham  up  the 
neat  staircase  of  his  House  of  Charity.  "  What 
a  beautiful  veugeance  it  is  of  this  man  upon 
nature  for  blighting  him  !  A  meaner  being 
would  be  soured,  and  turn  cynic,  and  perhaps 
chuckle  that  others  were  equalized  with  him  by 
suffering.  He  simply,  and  as  if  it  were  a  matter 
of  course,  gives  himself  to  baffling  sorrow  and 
bhght.  It  is  Godlike."  And  I  looked  with 
renewed  admiration  at  the  strange  figure  climb- 
ing the  stairs  before  me. 

He  was  all  head  and  shoulders,  and  his  mo- 
tions were  like  a  clumsy  child's.  I  went  slowly 
after  him.  Was  it  true  that  this  long  love-chase 
over  land  and  sea  was  at  its  ending?  Joy  is 
always  a  giant  surprise, —  success  a  disappoint- 
ment among  the  appointed  failures.  Was  this 
grim  dwarf  to  be  a  conjurer  of  happiness  ? 

Padiham  tapped  at  a  door  in  the  upper  story. 

A  voice  said,  "  Come  in." 


THE   LAST   OF   A   LOVE-CHASE.  355 

Her  voice !  That  sweet,  sad  voice  !  That  un- 
murmuring, unrebellious  voice  !  That  voice  of 
gentle  defiance,  speaking  a  soul  impregnable  ! 
How  full  of  calm  hopefulness  !  while  yet  I  could 
detect  in  it  the  power  of  bursting  into  all  the  hor- 
ror of  that  dread  scream  that  had  come  through 
the  stillness  to  our  camp  at  Fort  Bridger. 

The  dwarf  opened  the  door  quietly. 

The  sunshine  of  that  fresh  June  morning  lay 
bright  upon  the  roses  in  the  window.  My  glance 
perceived  the  old  blue-gray  infantry  surtout  hang- 
ing in  a  corner.  Mr.  Clitheroe  was  sitting  up 
in  bed,  lifting  a  tea-cup  with  his  left  hand.  His 
long  white  beard  drifted  over  the  cool  bedclothes. 
An  appetizing  breakfast,  neatly  served,  was  upon 
a  table  beside  Mm.  And  there  in  this  safe 
haven,  hovering  about  him  tenderly  as  ever  in 
the  days  of  his  errant  voyaging  in  the  hapless 
time  gone  by,  was  his  ministering  angel,  that 
dear  daughter,  the  sister  of  my  choice. 

She  turned  as  we  entered. 

The  old  steady,  faithful  look  in  the  gray  eyes. 
The  same  pale,  saddened  beauty.  The  unblench- 
ing  gaze  of  patient  waiting. 

She  looked  at  me  vaguely,  while  life  paused 
one  pulse.  Then,  as  I  stepped  forward,  the  elo- 
quent blood  gushed  into  her  face,  —  for  she  knew 
that  the  friend  could  not  long  outrun  the  lover. 
She  sprang  into  my  arms.    Forgive  me,  John 


S5Q  .  JOHN   BRENT. 

Brent,  if  I  did  put  my  lips  close  to  her  burning 
cheek.  It  was  only  to  whisper,  "  He  is  in  Lon- 
don, searching  for  you.  He  has  never  rested 
one  moment  since  you  were  lost  to  us.  In  an 
hour  he  will  be  here." 

"  Dear  father,"  she  said,  drawing  herself  away, 

and  smiling  all  aglow,  while   tears   proclaimed 

a  joy  too  deep  for  any  surface  smile  to  speak, 

* "  this   is    our   dear   friend,   my   preserver,   Mr. 

Wade." 

Mr.  Clitheroe  studied  me  with  a  bewildered 
look,  as  I  have  seen  an  old  hulk  of  a  mariner 
peer  anxiously  into  a  driving  sea-fog  from  the 
shore,  while  he  talked  of  shipmates  shaken  from 
the  yard,  or  of  brave  ships  that  sunk  in  un- 
known seas.  Then  the  mist  slowly  cleared  away 
from  the  old  gentleman's  dim  eyes,  and  he  saw 
me  in  the  scenery  of  my  acting  with  him. 

"  All  yes  !  "  he  said,  in  a  mild,  dreamy  voice, 
"I  see  it  all.  Sizzum's  train,  Fort  Bridger,  the 
Ball,  the  man  with  a  bloody  blanket  on  his  head, 
you  and  your  friend  galloping  off  over  the  prai- 
rie,—  I  see  it  all." 

He  paused,  and  seemed  to  review  all  that  wild 
error  of  his  into  the  wilderness. 

"  Yes,  I  see  it  all,"  he  continued.  "  My  dear 
Mr.  Wade,  I  remember  you  with  unspeakable 
gratitude.  You  and  your  friend  saved  me  thia 
dearest  daughter.     I  have  suffered  wearing  dis- 


THE   LAST   OF   A   LOVE-CHA.SE.  357 

tress  siuce  then,  and  you  must  pardon  me  for 
forgetting  you  one  instant.  Excuse  my  left 
hand !  Dwarf  George  is  a  capital  machinist, 
but  he  says  he  cannot  put  new  springs  into  my 
right.  That  is  nothing,  my  dear  Mr,  Wade, 
that  is  nothing.  God  has  given  me  peace  of 
mind  at  last,  my  dear  daughter  has  forgiven 
me  all  my  old  follies,  and  my  stanch  old  mate 
will  never  let  me  want  a  roof  over  my  head,  or 
a  crust  of  his  bread  and  a  sup  of  his  can." 

There  is  a  Hansom  cab-horse,  now  or  late  of 
London,  who  must  remember  me  with  asperity. 

But  then  there  is  a  cabman  who  is  my  friend 
for  hfe,  if  a  giant  fare  can  win  a  cabman's 
heart. 

By  the  side  of  the  remembrance  of  my  gal- 
lop down  Luggernel  Alley,  I  have  a  picture  in 
my  mind  of  myself,  in  a  cab,  cutting  furiously 
through  the  canons  of  London  in  chase  of  a 
lover.  The  wolves  and  cayotes  of  the  by-streets  — 
there  are  no  antelopes  in  London  —  did  not  at- 
tempt to  follow  our  headlong  speed.  We  rattled 
across  Westminster  Bridge,  up  Whitehall,  and 
so  into  May  Fair  to  Lady  Biddulph's  door. 

The  footman  —  why  did  he  grin  when  he  saw 
me  ?  —  recognized  me  as  the  family  friend  of  yes- 
terday, and  ushered  me  without  ceremony  into 
the  breakfast-room,  where  the  family  were  all 
assembled. 


358  JOHN   BRENT. 

Why  did  the  footman  grin?  I  perceived,  as 
I  entered.  A  mirror  fronted  me.  My  face  was 
like  a  Sioux's  in  his  war-paint.  There  liad  been 
flies  in  Padiham's  shop,  and  I  had  brushed  them 
away  from  my  face,  alas !  with  hands  blackened 
over  the  lathe. 

All  looked  up  amazed  at  this  truculent  in- 
truder.    It  was,  — 

"  Enter  Orlando,  with  his  sword  drawnP 

"  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more !  " 

An  injunction  not  necessary  for  poor  Brent, 
who  bat  dreary  and  listless. 

The  rest  forbore  at  my  apparition.  Egg-spoon 
paused  at  egg's  mouth.  Sugar  sank  to  the  floor 
of  cofiee-cup.     Toast  silenced  its  crackle. 

Brent  recognized  me  in  the  grimy  pirate  be- 
fore him. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  You  have  found 
her !  "  cried  he. 

"  Yes." 

He  looked  at  me  eagerly. 

"  Well  and  happy,"  I  said ;  "  in  a  safe  haven 
with  a  faithful  friend.  Lady  Biddulph  wiU  par- 
don me,  bringing  such  tidings,  for  rushing  in 
in  my  war-paint,  American  fashion." 

"  You  are  always  welcome,  Mr.  Wade,  in  what 
costume  you  please,"  said  she.  "  Doubly  so 
with  this  happy  news.  My  dear  Ellen  !  I  must 
see  her  at  once,  —  as  soon  as  closer  friends  have 


THE  LAST   OF   A   LOVE-CHASE.  359 

had  their  hour.  But,  Mr.  Brent,  you  are  not 
going  -without  your  breakfast !  " 

Everybody  smiled. 

"  Come  !     Come  !  "  cried  Brent. 

"  Come !  "  and  as  we  hurried  away,  there  was 
again  the  same  light  in  his  eye,  —  the  same  life 
and  ardor  in  his  whole  being,  as  when,  in  that 
wild  Love-Chase  on  the  Plains,  we  galloped  side 
by  side. 


THE    END. 


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ens's Works  now  published.  Its  special  points  of  excellence  are  the  following  : 
First,  its  large  type  ;  second,  it  coatains  all  the  original  Illustrations  by  Crdik- 
SHANK,  Phiz,  Setmour,  Catermole,  Leech,  and  others,  —  printed  from  the 
original  plates,  in  which  the  spirit  and  delicacy  of  the  early  etchings  are  pre- 
served i  third,  the  compact  and  convenient  shape  of  the  volumes  ;  fourth,  the 
continuous  paging,  instead  of  two  or  more  series  of  pages,  as  in  books  made 
up  of  separate  volumes  ;  and,  fifth,  its  low  price  compared  with  that  of  any 
other  Library  edition  at  all  worthy  to  be  placed  in  comparison  with  this. 

This  Edition  contains  Twenty-seven  duodecimo  volumes,  as  follows  :  — 

BARNABY  RUDGE.    2  vols. 
DAVID  COPPERFIELD.    2  vols. 
LITTLE  DORRIT.     2  vols. 
OLIVER  TWIST.     1vol. 
BLEAK  HOUSE.     2  vols. 
SKETCHES  BY  BOZ.     1vol. 
A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  1vol. 
CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.    1vol. 
PICTURES    FROM    ITALY,  and 
AMERICAN  NOTES. 

Cloth,  $2.00  a  volume.    HaU  Calf, 


THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS.  2 
vols. 

NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY.    2  vols. 

OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND.  2 vols. 

MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT.   2  vols. 

GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.   1  vol. 

DOMBEY  AND  SON.    2  vols. 

OLD   CURIOSITY   SHOP.    2  vols. 

THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAV- 
ELLER, and  ADDITIONAL 
CHRISTMAS  STORIES.     1vol. 

Elegantly  bound  in  Green  Morocco 
$  100.00  a  set. 


J.  R.   Osgood  and  Company's 


"The  best  edition  of  Mr.  Dickens's  Works  that  ever  has  been  published,  and 
which  has  been  everywhere  well  received  in  Europe  and  America.  The  pen- 
cils of  first-rate  artists  here  embody  the  conceptions  of  a  great  artist,  and  do  so 
well  and  worthily.  The  letter-press  does  the  utmost  credit  to  the  printers,  and 
the  type  is  impressed  on  the  finest  of  paper.  For  the  library,  or  for  common 
use,  the  Library  Edition  is  by  far  the  best  collection  of  the  writings  of  the 
Grand  Master  of  Fiction  that  can  be  had.  Such  another  array  of  wit,  pathos, 
humor,  sentiment,  invention,  character,  and  satire  in  beautiful  externals,  it  will 

indeed   be  hard  to  find,  if  not  quite  impossible These  Boston  editions 

of  Mr.  Dickens's  productions  are  his  editions  as  much  so  as  those  issued  in 
London,  while  other  American  editions  of  those  productions,  whatever  else  their 
merits,  have  not  the  crowning  merit  of  all,  that  of  promoting  justice  through 
their  publication.  Their  very  appearance  is  an  attempt  to  defeat  the  ends  of 
justice,  a  protest  against  allowing  a  great  man  to  hold  property  here  in  his  own 
productions.  Purchasers  of  books,  who  are  very  numerous,  should  think  of 
this,  and  act  according  to  that  sense  of  right  which  exists  in  every  mind."  — 
C.  C.  Hazewejll,  in  Boston  Traveller, 


THE   WAVERLEY   NOVELS. 

ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  EDITION. 

"  Who  is  there  that,  on  looking  back  over  a  great  portion  of  his  life,  does  not 
find  the  genius  of  Scott  administering  to  his  pleasures,  beguiling  his  cares,  and 
soothing  his  lonely  sorrows."  —  Washington  Irving. 

This  edition  contains  all  the  latest  notes  and  corrections  of  the  author, 
an  ample  Glossary,  and  a  complete  Index  of  all  the  personages  and  incidents 
of  the  various  tales,  being  the  fullest  edition  of  the  Novels  ever  published. 

The  Novels  are  illustrated  with  Steel  Plates,  after  drawings  and  paintings  by 
the  most  eminent  artists. 

The  edition  contains  twenty-five  duodecimo  volumes,  as  follows : 


J 


"WAVERLEY, 

GITY  MANNERING, 

THE  ANTIQUARY, 

ROB  ROY, 

OLD  MORTALITY, 

THE  BLACK  DWARF, 

THE  LEGEND  OF  MONTROSE, 

THE  HEART  OF  MID-LOTHIAN, 

THE  BRIDE  OF  LAJVEMERMOOR, 

rVANHOE, 

THE  MONASTERY, 

THE  ABBOT, 

KENILWORTH, 

THE  PIRATE, 

THE  FORTUNES  OF  NIGEL, 

PEVERIL  OF  THE  PEAK, 

QUENTIN  DURWARD, 

The  volumes  are  uniform  with  The  Illustrated  Libraky  Edition  op  Dick- 
ens's Works. 

Price,  Clothj  f  1  50  a  volume  ;  Half  Calf,  $  75  a  set. 


ST.  RONAN'S  "WELL, 
REDGAUNTLET, 
THE  BETROTHED,  i 

THE  HIGHLAND  "WIDO'W,  \ 
"WOODSTOCK, 
THE  TALISMAN, 
TWO  DRO"VrERS, 
MY  AUNT  MARGARET'S  MIR- 
ROR. 
THE  TAPESTRIED  CHAMBER, 
THE  LAIRD'S  JOCK, 
THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  PERTH, 
ANNE  OF  GEIERSTEIN, 
COUNT  ROBERT  OF  PARIS, 
THE  SURGEON'S  DAUGHTER,^ 
CASTLE  DANGEROUS,  >■ 

INDEX  AND  GLOSSARY.         J 


Choice  and  Popular    Worhs  of  Fiction.  5 

"  The  clear  type,  convenient  size,  and  general  elegance  of  this  edition  com- 
mend it  to  t!ie  favor  of  every  lover  of  Scott's  romances."  —  JVeio  York  Times. 

"It  is  by  far  the  best  cheap  edition  of  Scott's  novels  ever  offered  to  the 
American  public,  and  should  find  a  new  and  wide  circle  of  purchasers."  — 
Springfield  Republican. 

"  The  best  of  writings  in  the  finest  of  forms."  —  Boston  Traveller. 

HO  USE  no  LD  EDITION. 
In  fifty  volumes,  uniform  in  size  and  shape  with  the  popular  Household  edi- 
tions of  Reabe,  Thackeray,  Dickens,  &c.    S  1.25  a  volume. 


liYDIA  MARIA   CHILD. 

A  ROMAJ^CE  OF  THE  REPUBLIC.    1vol.    16mo.    $2.00. 

"  A  story  of  the  influence  of  slavery  on  the  domestic  relations,  showing  the 
possible  complications  to  which  it  might  give  rise.  The  plot  exhibits  great 
activity  of  imagination,  although  the  incidents  are  described  with  so  much 
strength  and  naturalness  of  coloring  as  to  appear  like  pictures  of  real  life. 
By  alternating  the  scenes  between  the  South  and  the  North,  representativa 
specimens  of  the  two  conditions  of  society  find  a  wide  field  for  the  exhibitioa 
of  their  respective  peculiarities." — JVezo  York  Tribune. 


ANNA   E.   DICKINSON. 

WHAT  ANSWER?    1vol.     16mo.     $1.50. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  books  which  belong  to  the  class  of  deeds,  not  words.  It  is 
a  solemn,  earnest,  thrilling,  enthusiastic  appeal,  in  which  a  noble  woman, 
herself  at  ease,  blessed  with  flattering  friends,  with  applause,  with  admiration, 
takes  all  in  her  hand,  and  risks  all  in  pleading  the  cause  of  the  poorest,  the 
most  despised,  the  most  maltreated  and  scorned  of  God's  creatures.  In  the 
form  of  a  story  she  makes  a  most  condensed,  earnest,  and  powerful  appeal  to 
the  heart  and  conscience  of  the  American  nation  on  the  sin  of  caste. 

"  If  anybody  can  read  the  book  unmoved,  we  have  only  pity  for  him. 
What  gives  tliis  story  its  awful  power  is  its  truth.'''' — Harriet  Beecheb 
Stowe. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ADAM  BEDE. 

THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

EOMOLA. 

FELIX  HOLT. 

SILAS  MARKER,  AND  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Household  Edition.    5  vols.     16mo.     S  1.00  each. 

Illustrated  Library  Edition.     Complete  in   2  vols.     16mo.     With   niunerons 
Illustrations     $3.50. 

"  George  Eliot  has  made  people  read  novels  who  never  read  fiction  from 
any  other  pen.  She  has  made  the  novel  the  companion  and  friend  and  study 
of  scholars  and  thinkers  and  statesmen.  The  deep  philosophic  thought  of  hsr 
novels  suffuses  and  illumines  them  everywhere  Her  prose  might  be  the  study 
of  a  scholar  anxious  to  acquire  and  appreciate  a  noble  style.  It  is  as  luminous 
as  the  language  of  Mill ;  far  more  truly  picturesque  than  that  of  Ruskin  ;  ca- 
pable of  forcible,  memorable  expression  as  the  robust  Saxon  of  Bright."  —  Jcs- 
TiN  McCarthy. 

1* 


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HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

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Mrs.  Stowe's  romances  are  among  the  most  thoughtful,  picturesque,  and 
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titious, for  they  treat  inimitably  and  with  unfailing  freshness  some  of  the  deep- 
est themes  that  engage  the  attention  of  earnest  minds  ;  they  paint  marvel- 
lously truthful  pictures  of  the  times,  countries,  and  people  to  which  they  re- 
late ;  and  are  inspired  by  a  nobility  of  purpose  that  lifts  them  infinitely  above 
the  ordinary  novel.  Yet  they  are  so  humorous,  so  exceedingly  ingenious  in 
depicting  the  ludicrous  side  of  things,  that  they  rank  with  the  most  charming 
stories  in  English  literature. 


EDWARD   EVERETT  HALE. 

IF,  YES,  AND  PERHAPS.    1vol.    16mo.    $1.50. 
THE  INGHAM  PAPERS.    1  voL    16mo.     $L50. 
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THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY.    10  cents. 

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they  add  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  a  truly  religious  hatred  of  humbug 
and  pretension,  and  an  exquisite  appreciation  of  bores.  It  is  refreshing  and 
exhilarating  to  find  a  writer  who  thoroughly  believes  in  the  widest  social 
intercourse,  in  '  keeping  abreast  of  the  thought  of  the  age,  in  interweaving 
that  thought  with  the  active  life  of  an  active  town,  and  inspiring  both  and 
making  both  infinite  by  glimpses  of  the  eternal  glory.' "  —  Advertiser  {Boston). 


THOMAS    HUGHES. 

TOM  BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS  AT  RUGBY.    1vol.    16mo.    New 
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TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  2  vols.  16mo.  With  Portrait  of  the 
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to  Rugby,  and  ending  when  he  had  passed  through  the  crystal  gates  of  learn- 
ing and  entered  those  golden  portals  within  which  lie  love  and  life,  has  in- 
spired us.  They  are  among  the  noblest  and  manliest  things  of  the  time,  and 
worth  their  weight  in  diamonds  to  English  and  American  youth."  —  J^ew  York 
Atlas. 


Choice  and  Popular    Works  of  Fiction. 


MRS.   ANNE  M.  C.  SEEMULLER. 

REGINALD  ARCHER.     1  vol.     12mo.      $2.00.     Popular  Edition. 
8vo.     Paper,  75  cents  ;  Cloth,  $  1.25. 

ERTILY  CHESTER.    1  vol.    12mo.    $  2.00. 

OPPORTUNITY.    1vol.    12mo.    $2.00. 

"  '  Reginald  Archer,'  a  novel  by  the  author  of '  Emily  Chester,'  has  many  of 
the  characteristics  of  that  book,which  made  much  noise  at  the  time  it  was  pub- 
lished ;  but  the  present  book  shows  a  much  deeper  experience  of  Ufe  than 
that,  while  it  does  not  lack  the  insight  and  generosity  of  spirit  that  were  so 
attractive  in  '  Emily  Chester.'  "  —  Springfield  Republican. 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 

1  vol.    8vo.    Paper,  50  cents  ;  Cloth,  $  1.00. 

"  A  really  good  novel,  by  an  American  writer,  is  such  a  rarity  that  we  have 
to  thank  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  of  Boston,  for  publishing  'Woven  of  Many 
Threads  '  It  comes  to  us  as  a  story  written  by  an  American  lady,  with  its 
scene  in  England,  France,  and  Italy,  giving  true  and  vivid  sketches  of  social 
life  in  each  country."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 


GEORGE   SAND. 

THE  MARQUIS  DE  VILLEMER.  Translated  (from  the  French  of 
George  Sand  by  Ralph  Keeler.  1  vol.  8vo.  Paper,  75  cents ; 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

*'  The  readers  of  Every  Saturday  will  remember  this  novel  as  one  of  George 
Band's  most  charmingly  simple  and  natural  stories.  The  plot  Is  very  quiet, 
the  characters  few,  and  the  action  limited  ;  but  these  elements  are  worked  up 
in  a  masterly  manner,  and  the  result  is  a  very  delightful  story.  The  descrip- 
tions of  scenery  are,  of  course,  fine,  for  no  one  excels  George  Sand  in  her 
power  of  seizing  the  characteristic  points  in  a  landscape,  and  then  vividly 
reproducing  them,"  —  Ph.ladelphia  Post. 


SOMETHING  TO  DO. 

A  New  Novel.    1  vol.    8vo.    Paper,  75  cents ;  Cloth,  $  1.25. 

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to  enchain  the  attention.  There  is  something  very  beautiful  in  the  life  of 
Alice,  who  in  a  sweet  and  gentle  way  finds  ever  '  something  to  do,'  while  In 
the  glorious  beauty  and  commanding  talents  of  her  sister  Celia  there  is  a  pa- 
thos and  a  vein  of  sadness  that  make  our  very  hearts  ache.  Woman's  rights, 
and  other  absorbing  topics  of  the  times  find  a  place  in  this  book,  though  not 
to  a  wearisome  extent.  Sweet  vistas  are  opened  up  to  us,  where  Nature  is  seen 
in  all  her  loveliness,  and  where  the  heart  goes  out  for  the  pure  and  simple 
pleasures  of  rural  life."  —  Concord  People. 


TOO  BRIGHT  TO  LAST. 

1  vol.    8vo.    Paper,  35  cents. 


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CAROLINE  CHESEBRO'. 

THE  FOE  IN  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     1  vol.    8vo.    Paper,  75  cents : 
Cloth,  $  1.25. 

An  engaging  and  instructive  story,  painting  in  strong  but  truthful  colors 

some  of  the  evil  influences  that  mar  the  beauty  and  destroy  the  peace  of  many 

a  household. 

"  '  The  Foe  in  the  Household,'  by  Caroline  Chesebro',  is  a  story  of  intense 
dramatic  interest,  and  is  written  with  a  force  as  well  as  a  delicacy  truly  admira- 
ble." —  Boston  Post. 

"  A  powerful  story."  —  Boston  Commonwealth. 


MRS.  VALERIC 

IN  A.    A  Novel.    1  vol.    8vo.    Paper,  75  cents. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

CALEB  WILLIAMS.    1  vol.    8vo.    Paper,  35  cents. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

CATHERINE.    1vol.    8vo.    35  cents. 


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CHARLES    DICKENS. 

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thought  and  pen,  and,  in  his  special  field,  the  most  useful."  —  Springfield 
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Choice  and  Popular   Works  of  Fiction.  9 

HENRY   KINGSLEY. 

NOVELS.    New  Popular  Edition. 

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of  a  depraved  nature  and  the  weakness  that  lurks  in  a  correct  one.  He  is  no 
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border-land  of  flesh  and  spirit,  whence  breathe  the  creeping  airs  that  thrill  with 
fearful  fascination.  His  mirth  is  grave  with  sweet  thoughts  ;  the  very  poetry 
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incidents,  and  the  graces  of  its  style."  —  Christian  Examiner. 

EL  FUREIDIS.    1  voL    16mo.    $1.75. 

" '  El  Fureidts '  unquestionably  places  Miss  Cummins  in  the  foremost  and 
most  honored  rank  of  the  fiction  writers  of  our  age."  —  Boston  Post. 

''The  book  breathes  all  through  of  the  sunny  Orient."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 


CHARLES  READE. 

NOVELS.    Household  Edition. 

Published  with  the  Author's  sanction.     Complete  in  nine  volumes  :  bound 
in  green  morocco  cloth,  with  gilt  back  and  side. 


NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND. 

1vol. 
PEG  WOFFINGTON,  CHRISTIE 

JOHNSTONE,  and  other  Stories. 

1vol. 
PUT  YOURSELF  IN  HIS  PLACE. 

1vol. 


HARD  CASH.    1  vol. 

FOUL  PLAY.    1  vol. 

WHITE  LIES.     1  vol. 

LOVE    ME    LITTLE    LOVE  ME 

LONG.    1vol. 
GRIFFITH  GAUNT.     1  vol. 
THE      CLOISTER     AND      THE 

HEARTH.    1  vol. 

Price,  $  1.00  a  volume. 

"  Mr.  Reade  has  become  one  of  the  greatest  artists  in  the  realm  of  fiction. 
His  power  is  of  the  kind  which  will  always  seem  cearse  to  a  certain  class  of 
minds  unable  to  discriminate,  —  for  he  is  very  apt  to  call  a  spade  a  spade  ;  and 
among  the  minikin  performances  of  the  day,  his  strong  and  genuine  mastery 
over  human  characters  and  passions  shows  out  with  a  force  of  outline  which 
may  possibly,  in  some  cases,  look  exaggerated  But  we  are  disposed  to  assign 
this  powerful  romancist  one  of  the  highest  places  in  his  art." —  Blackwoocfs 
Magazine. 


Choice  and  Popular    Works  of  Fiction.         11 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

NOVELS.    Household  Edition. 

Unform  with  the  Household  Reade.     Complete  in  six  volumes,  bound  in 
green  morocco  cloth,  gilt  back  and  side. 


VANITY  FAIR.    1  vol. 
THE  NEWCOMES.    1  vol. 
ADVENTURES    OF   PHILIP. 

vol. 

Price  per  volume,  $  1.25. 


PENDENNIS.     1vol. 
THE  VIRGINIANS.     1  vol. 
ESMOND,  and 
LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER.  1vol. 


Illustrated  Library  Edition. 

Uniform  with  the  Illustrated  Library  Editions  of  Dickens,  Waverlet 
Novels,  etc.  "With  numerous  Illustrations  by  the  Author,  Doyle,  Walker, 
and  Du  JIaurier.    6  vols.     12mo.     $  2.00  each. 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS.    Household  Edition. 

Uniform  with  Thackeray's  Novels.  Complete  in  five  volumes.  With  new 
Portrait.    16mo.    Cloth,  $  1.25. 

This  edition  includes  all  the  matter  in  the  late  English  edition  with  various 
additions,  thus  making  it  with  the  Novels, 

([g^~"  The  cheapest  and  most  complete  Thackeray  in  the  market. 

CATHERINE.    1  vol.    8vo.    Paper  Covers,  35  cents. 

EARLY  AND  LATE  PAPERS.    1vol.    16mo.    With  Portrait.    $2.00. 


MISS  ANNE  THACKERAY. 

THE  STORY  OF  ELIZABETH,  and  other  Stories.    Household  Edi- 
tion.   1vol.    16mo.    $1.00. 

"  '  The  Story  of  Elizabeth '  affords  an  almost  solitary  instance  of  a  simple, 
touching,  lifelike  tale,  which  possesses  interest  without  any  physical  horrors, 
and  amusement  without  the  aid  of  melodrama."  —  Fraser''s  Magazine. 

THE  VILLAGE  ON  THE  CLIFF,  and  other  Stories  and  Sketches. 
Household  Edition.     1  vol.     16mo.     $  1.00. 

"  Compared  with  the  ordinary  run  of  three  volume  novels,  the  '  Village  on 
the  Clifif '  is  as  a  highly  finished  cabinet  picture  by  the  side  of  a  dozen  square 

yards  of  stage  scenery The  writer  possesses  original  gifts  of  her  own, 

a  capability  of  minutely  analyzing  mental  struggles,  and  a  peculiar  faculty  for 
depicting  the  landscape  in  which  her  characters  move.  So  powerful  is  her 
rendering  that  we  do  not  merely  say  coldly,  'This  is  a  vivid  and  truthful  pic- 
ture '  ;  we  insensibly  breathe,  as  we  read,  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  place 
described."  —  London  Times. 


GOETHE. 


WILHELM  MEISTER.     Translated  by  Thomas  Caxlyle.    With  fine 
Portrait  of  Goethe.    2  vols.    12mo.    $  3.50. 

"Perhaps  the  greatest  single  novel  is  Goethe's  '  Wilhehn  Melster.' "  — E. 
P.  Whipple. 


12         J.  R.  Osgood  8f  Co.'s   Works  of  Fiction. 

THEODORE   WINTHROP. 

WORKS.    New  Popular  Edition. 

Elegantly  bound  in  ornamented  cloth.    Price  S  1.00  a  volume. 

CECIL  DREEME.    Witli  Biographical  Sketch  by  George  William 
Curtis.    1  vol.    16nio. 

JOHN  BRENT.    1  vol.    16mo. 

EDWIN  BROTETERTOET.    1  vol.    16mo. 

THE  CANOE  AND  THE  SADDLE.    1  vol.    IGmo. 

LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  AIR,  and  other  Papers.    1  vol.    16mo. 

"  The  polish  which  culture  gives  to  the  mind,  combined  with  native  force  of 
character  and  large  experience  of  men  and  countries,  are  all  manifested  in 
Theodore  "Winthrop.  He  is,  in  our  opinion,  one  of  the  most  original  of  Amer- 
ican writers,  without  being  either  vulgar  or  offensive  to  men  of  education 

He  gives  us  the  impression  of  always  relating  what  he  had  witnessed.  His 
heroes  and  heroines  act  as  human  beings  who  have  really  passed  through  the 
adventures  in  which  they  are  made  to  figure.  He  had  experienced  what  life 
really  is,  before  attempting  to  depict  it  in  a  novel."  —  Westminster  Review. 


GOOD   STORIES. 

A  COLLECTION  OF  SHORT  STORIES,  TALES,  AND  SKETCHES. 
Parts  I.,  II.,  III.,  IV.    Small  quarto.    Illustrated. 

This  collection  is  intended  to  bring  together,  in  cheap  and  attractive  form,  the 
best  and  most  popular  short  stories  of  all  languages.  The  character  of  the 
Stories  selected,  and  the  striking  and  appropriate  Illustrations,  make  these 
little  books  very  desirable  to  all  lovers  of  thoroughly  good  Stories  ;  while  the 
shape  and  size  of  the  volumes,  and  their  large  type,  make  them  specially  suited 
to  the  convenience  of  travellers. 

PART  I.  —  Contents  ;  The  Avenger,  by  Thomas  De  Quinoet  ;  Peter 
Goldthwaite's  Treasure,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  ;  Love  and  Skates,  by 
Theodore  Winthrop  ;  The  Defaulter,  by  Thomas  Hood  ;  Coldstream,  by 
Herbert  Vaughan  ;  Madonna,  by  Henry  Spicer. 

PART  II.  —  Contents  -.  The  Metempsychosis,  by  Robert  Macnish  ;  The 
Uninvited  ;  The  Bellows-Mender  of  Lyons  ;  The  Smallchange  Family  ;  The 
Scotsman's  Tale,  by  Harriet  Lee  ;  The  Blacksmiths  of  Holsby  ;  A  Penitent 
Confession. 

PART  III.  —  Contents:  Christmas  with  the  Baron;  Stephen  Yarrow,  by 
Mrs.  Rebecca  Harding  Davis  ;  A  Family  Christmas  in  Germany,  Trans- 
lated from  the  German  ;  Three  of  a  Trade,  or  Red  Little  Kriss  Kringle,  by 
FiTZ  James  O'Brien  ;  Adventures  of  a  New  Year's  Eve,  by  Hbnrich  Zsohokke. 

PART  IV.  —  Contents  :  From  Hand  to  Mouth,  by  Fitz- James  O'Brien; 
Count  Ernest's  Home,  by  Paul  Hetse  ;  Little  Peg  O'Shaughnessy  ;  A  Shabby 
Genteel  Story,  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

In  handsome  paper  covers.    Price,  Fifty  Cents  each. 

"  Designed  for  travellers  in  cars  and  steamboats  ;  though,  like  the  Old 
Farmer's  Almanac,  '  they  will  answer  as  well  for  the  latitude  and  longitude  of 
any  other'  vehicle,  chair,  or  stool." —  Worcester  Palladium. 

"Delectable  little  volumes  for  old  and  young."  —  Philadelphia  Press, 


11 


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